


Blood & Deep Desire

by rosemilagros



Category: True Grit (2010)
Genre: 1880s, Action/Adventure, F/M, Gen, Romance, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:03:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8356318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemilagros/pseuds/rosemilagros
Summary: The changes in Mattie Ross's life since the loss of her father cause her to long for the past. After meeting LaBoeuf in Dallas, she eagerly joins him in his pursuit of a fugitive that may have an unfortunate connection to herself. However, not all goes as planned after the pair come across a strange band of lady criminals competing for the same hunt.





	1. Mattie Ross, Gentlewoman

**Author's Note:**

> "Stars, hide your fires;  
>  Let not light see my black and deep desires."  
>  — _Macbeth_

It was in Dallas, Texas that I once again met the Texas Ranger known as LaBoeuf. He was much unchanged from last I saw him, and I was much changed. The series of happenings which led to my being in the parlor of that house that night in Texas relied as much on serendipity as did my discovering LaBoeuf there. The story of it began where my adventure in the Choctaw Nation ended.

Upon my return to Yell County late that winter, I found the farm in the care of our good friend Mrs. Garner. Though I was surprised to find her that evening in the kitchen of my house, I was not disappointed, knowing the Garners to be kind and sensible people; and I was glad to have a warm, ready supper after a long journey. During prayer I thanked God to be alive and with my family once more.

Mrs. Garner returned forthwith to her husband on her own farm, and the duties of ours were now left in the hands of my mother, and the one hand I had to offer.

Mama was in as deep a state of grief as when word of Papa's death first reached us. Her state was worsened by the absence of my arm and the frustration I could not help but exhibit in trying to accomplish my numerous chores one-handed. The same child did not come back to her that left for Fort Smith; this was a deeper loss.

My mother no longer possessed constitution for farm work and instead took employment as nursemaid to a banker's family in Dardanelle. She left home each morning at dawn in order to be there for the children's breakfast and did not return until dusk. Some nights, if she were too weary or the children were demanding, as they more than seldom were, she did not return at all.

At this time what little savings we had began to dwindle, for Victoria and I proved a miserable replacement of our father as a farmer and earnings were sufficient to employ just two farmhands year-round. That spring, when the cows took ill, we could pay the veterinarian in nothing but pies and eggs. Expensive medicine was ordered for the poor beasts, which also could not be paid for; when the doctor came round the next morning to administer it, one cow was found dead in the barn and the other on her last leg, to pass later that night.

Though God bred in me the will to stare death in its ugly face with iron poise, I had all my life been greatly affected by the needless suffering of innocent creatures. The death I have witnessed of man and beast alike has come at great cost to my happiness—for in truth I was an optimistic girl before my father's brutal death, the bloodshed that followed, the loss of my limb, and the subsequent decline of our farm. Though I had long since killed Chaney, he did not cease to rob me of each earthly thing I cherished.

I tried doggedly to tend the farm in the way Papa taught me, and taught Victoria to do the same, but still it would not do.

In a late attempt to save our home, I arranged to sell some acres to a wealthy man called Croft, a New Englander by birth but a longwhile citizen of Saint Louis, and recently established in Little Rock. What he wanted with the land I did not know, for what was not forest was not farmed and could not be farmed; the soil was too dry and rocky and devoid even of grass. Even my confidence in bartering could not argue for more than what amounted to scrap for that useless land—that land which to me had worth beyond monetary value, the land which had been my father's. That summer afternoon in Lawyer Daggett's humid office, as I watched Mama sign over the property to fat, pink-faced Mr. Croft, no number of bullets fired into the heart of Tom Chaney could forgive this disgrace to my father's memory.

The sale would sustain us for another season; but it was a short recess before bad luck once again arrived at our gate. At the start of harvest I broke my leg on a fall from the hayloft, while tossing bales down to the horses—a foolish tumble which could have been prevented when I tripped, had I reached for the support of a nearby ladder with my right hand instead of the left, which I was wont to do without thinking, so accustomed I was to that limb being there when I required it.

With my leg anchored in its medical dressings I was unable to work as the harvest went by, and Mama sacrificed wages for a month to care for me. I saw to it more hands than was customary were hired, but this made little difference, for with no supervision (Yarnell, our time-honored foreman, had found more desirable employment on another farm) the laborers were as productive in the fields as Little Frank would have been. After paying the hands, the books were looking poorer than when harvest began, and by Christmastide we were without a single almighty dollar.

We came then once more to rely on the professed generosity of Mr. Croft. Until this time I bore little reason to dislike the man, save for the haughty manner of his dress and Northern accent displeased me. He had done naught with the land we sold him, but I heard it from Mrs. Garner he planned to build a mill there.

I met him coincidentally one morning in Dardanelle at a general store in early spring while buying seed, over a year since my father's passing.

"Little Mattie Ross!" he greeted me with his sharp vowels on the porch of the store.

I bid him good-morning but continued on to place my purchases in my cart and undo the horse's reins, as there was much to achieve that day at the farm, but he would not let me go so easily.

"You are looking very lively, Miss Ross! The winter hasn't fazed you one bit. Why, you look very much improved."

"Thank you, Mr. Croft. You look very well yourself," said I, though he was just as ugly and pink-skinned as always.

"I have heard it from your mother's employer that the farm is not carrying on well in your father's absence," he said without modesty, as if the business of our finances was his own. "Terrible affair, terrible—the precise reason I have yet to go into crops myself! Never put faith in a venture which depends on the kindness of Mother Nature." He let out a hard guffaw, and I struggled to keep my wit inside my mouth.

He continued, "A miracle still, that it's kept on so long. I'm sure you have given consideration to bringing a man back into the household. The Rosses must be some women, to keep a farm going so long."

"Sit tight, Mr. Croft, and you will be truly perplexed when our farm survives far past one season."

For an instant he did not comprehend, then let out a hearty laugh. "Yes, by all means! With such tenacity—the Ross women are indeed _something_!"

Though I upheld all appearances of "tenacity" as I had to Mr. Croft, the true state of my morale was far from tenacious. The confidence I once had in my ability to raise the farm was depleted by our unlucky harvest and a harsh winter for the animals; my optimism reached its end. I anticipated by next year my mother and I would be seeking rooms in Dardanelle.

We sold then nearly all our land to Mr. Croft, and when I thought we had nothing more to give the man, after several visits to the house, Mama invited him for dinner, and announced before our meal their engagement.

The news was as appalling as its coming about was mystifying. Though I wanted to stand from my chair right that moment and bellow my protests, I could not do so in the face of them both. I had more seriously considered tying down a husband of my own before Mama's remarrying. Mr. Croft was a widower with children much older than myself, now with children and homes of their own. It was no wonder my mother captured his heart with her fine eyes and serene ways, but how she could accept any proposal of that fat carpetbagger's was the great mystery. The deed was done, I assumed, for my sake and my siblings'. The last of our property was then acquired by Mr. Croft not through sale, but through matrimony.

Within days we went from needy farmers to the envy of our friends and neighbors, and indeed the whole town of Dardanelle. Victoria, Frank, and I were immediately bought new hats and shoes. Mama became Mrs. Croft in the summer, and we still wore our wedding-clothes when we boarded the train to Little Rock and bid farewell to all we knew.

I never truly desired wealth. I have dreamt of boots I could not afford and admired drawings of pretty homes in magazines, but beyond its obvious benefits I saw no appeal in the idle life of an aristocrat. Before that day there were few occasions in my life to think of anything but cotton bales and milking cows; tasks I would never again need to contemplate.

Sitting in that spacious passenger car in my soft muslin dress, en route to the house in Little Rock which was now my own, my thoughts fell to my friends Rooster Cogburn and Mr. LaBoeuf. They would not recognize that girl in the window of the train, I believed, in such clothing, with pearls on her collar, her hair curled and pinned atop her head.

Formerly I had given up hope of seeing either man again. I had written letters to the Marshal at the Chinese grocery in Fort Smith which were never answered; and if I knew how to reach LaBoeuf I would have also written to ask of his well-being. I had directed a short note to the rangers in El Paso which was returned for an improper address. Victoria and Little Frank often joked about the Marshal being a secret sweetheart of mine; though the teasing nagged me, I wished them to keep thinking that way, and to remain unaware of the subject of my true affection.

#

In each recounting of my adventure in the Choctaw Nation, I omitted that piece of the tale which I cherished most, for not doing so would shock my mother and invite unending ridicule from my siblings.

Almost nightly I thought of that moment I put my lips upon Mr. LaBoeuf's, after pleading him not to quit our small party and abandon the chase for Chaney. It was the foolish move of a girl and one which I have never regretted.

Never would I regret that sensation which went through me when his hand rested on my frozen cheek, as soothing and warm as the camp-fire; nor would I regret his lips when he sweetly kissed me back.

He said before he mounted his horse and rode away, "I am tempted, Miss Ross, but I am afraid even a tender kiss will not detain me."

I knew then I would never under free-will marry a man whose integrity did not outweigh that Texas Ranger's, and I knew not a man yet born could lay claim to such character.

#

We were well provided for in Little Rock and well treated. Enduring my step-father's boisterous attitude and want of manners was a small price to pay for all I was given. I had a large room and comfortable bed all to my own, all the material things I desired, and I was educated by an English governess in grammar, history, French, music, and more. For my sixteenth birthday I received a little black pug as a gift, named Pomme, who was treated just as lavishly.

Days were occupied with lessons, pleasure-reading and brisk walks; evenings were busy with parties where crowds of strangers revolved around me. I made rare effort to entertain anyone I was introduced to, and did little more at gatherings than stand or sit solitarily and make sporadic conversation with an acquaintance. Never was I the one to make the initiation. Naturally, I found few friends; as many as I disliked found myself equally disagreeable. Ladies and gentlemen alike were as appalled by my disinterest in womanly things as they were my ignorance of proprieties which came instinctively to their breeding.

We rode always in carriages, over paved roads, past plain-clothed pedestrians running the sort of errands I now had someone to run for me. How gray and sad each one of them looked against the maroon velvet and glossy window-frame of our coach. Mr. Croft remarked how uncouth it was to gape whenever I studied the faces of passers-by like that.

It was clearly the goal of my step-father to mold my siblings and I into his notion of "fine people"; because this meant becoming like the vexatious girls whose acquaintance I was driven into, I would have rather been raised by wolves. My mother reinforced this agenda to transform us at the influence of Mr. Croft and her new circle of women, a reinforcement which increased to strict demands once her friends made their intense disapproval of my behavior known. This change in my mother's gentle manner, and a coinciding argument about my taking out the stable-horses to ride, determinately ruptured our bond, a separation which had begun at her remarriage.

Venturing more than a step from home unattended, past three o'clock, might as well have been a sin; all clothing was ordered from a local Irish seamstress or a fashion house, and were worn in company after extensive fittings, and paid for after the approval of my mother and Mr. Croft; and nearly all outdoor activity but gentle walks was banned.

Discussion of my future was constant, spoken about with too much frankness in my presence, and rarely invited my own input. Once I was established in the "fine society" of Little Rock, many bachelors factored into these discussions. At every party, no matter the occasion, I was acquainted by my parents to half a dozen bachelors or more, none of which I gave a second glance. This was much to the displeasure of Mr. Croft, and the anguished un-surprise of my mother.

I hated it all; the corsets, the dances, the dinners, what I was not allowed to say or do or let anyone else know I had ever done, like shot a pistol, and killed a man, and picked cotton; the tight slippers, the closed carriages, the confined city, the _fine_ society. I especially hated Mr. Croft, his voice, the way he walked all over Mama—even if she allowed herself to be used so, a gentleman should not possess a temper to be displayed in front of his wife.

The daughter of Frank Ross was not meant to be raised anywhere but a farm, and I longed to escape the city. Mr. Croft did build that mill on our old property in Yell County and profited greatly from it, employing half the men in Dardanelle and buying yet more farmers out of their land.

To equate life under the roof of Mr. Croft to torture would be unreasonable, when our dwelling was so extravagant, and all of our needs and more were met. The abundance of leisurely days at least awarded me time to dream of other places, of the west, of Mr. LaBoeuf. I imagined by some great miracle encountering him whenever I left the house. As if in some dream-state, I dementedly allowed myself to believe this wish would come true; as all my newest longings came true by fortune or connections, I intuitively assumed even the most ludicrous daydreams would sometime be fulfilled.

And by the pity of God, or the luck of a rich girl, this ludicrous wish was granted.

 

On our third autumn in Little Rock, I accompanied my step-father on a business trip to Dallas, Texas whilst concealing my true motivation of volunteering for the journey; for if Mr. Croft or my mother knew I intended to track down an old sweetheart twice my age who wore buckskin and carried a rifle, I was certain they would not have been so enthused about my going. Mama was particularly delighted when I interrupted their conversation in the parlor about this Dallas trip to say I wished to join Mr. Croft, whom I usually thinly veiled my abhorrence of.

The comforts of my new life had truly depleted the sense which nature gifted me. There I found myself, travelling miles and miles to Dallas in hopes of encountering a man who had perhaps not in years stepped foot in that city. Who was this lightheaded Mattie Ross?—who took impulsive actions pivoting on a man she had known merely a fortnight, years ago.

For the train to Dallas I wore my prettiest dress and pinned my hair beneath a simple, sensible toque to outline my face maturely, under the influence of some delusion that I would step onto the platform, luggage in hand, and there LaBoeuf would await me.

My step-father, however, must have assumed himself the man for whom I took this journey, for he talked nearly the whole way across state lines. Each time I mercifully began to doze off I was woken by a pat on my shoulder and a lordly, numbly-spoken "Mattie-dear". The small car offered no escape from his babble.

I feared Mr. Croft discovering my true business in Texas and sending me home before I had a chance to locate LaBoeuf. If my mother learned the reason for my indifference to the continuing line bachelors she and Mr. Croft steered my way I was unsure what her opinion would be. I was certain Mr. Croft, upon first sight of the fringed coat and clinking spurs, would have me on the first train back to Little Rock.

Dallas, even in October, was sweltering under a clear blue sky, when the train came into the station. It was difficult to tell who huffed and puffed more, Mr. Croft or I—I beneath my tight bodice, and Mr. Croft beneath his thick rolls of skin.

The Centennial Inn was not cooler by any degree and certainly not as humble an establishment as its name suggested. It sat vivid-yellow on the corner of a busy, sunny stone-paved street, a pretty three-storied building wrapped with white-trimmed porch and balcony. The interior was prettier still, and the man at the desk offered to have towels and a bucket of chipped ice brought to my room when he noticed my silk fan rapidly fluttering in my hand. Gone were my days of sleeping beside sick blind women in beds sized for children.

Though I tried always to be an honest Christian, the morning after our arrival in Dallas, I lied outright to my step-father about my daytime activity, saying I would likely browse the shops when I fully intended to go elsewhere. Mr. Croft had his business in the city, and I planned to go about the town alone that morning, when I was surprised by Mrs. Tilden in the front hall of the hotel — a frail, well-dressed woman Mr. Croft apparently entrusted as my companion for the day. She carried a parasol and velvet purse, and wore a large bonnet around flaxen hair, embellished with huge feathers and fresh flowers, tied in an extravagant bow beneath her chin.

"Miss Ross!" she shouted, surprising me, as I assumed before that moment she was a complete stranger. Her smile showed a wide gap in her front teeth that whistled slightly when she spoke. "Yes, it must be you. There are not many pretty girls with one arm here in Dallas!"

"May I help you?" I was alarmed as the stranger shook my hand.

"Oh, yes, of course. I know you only because you were described to me by Mr. Croft. He is an old friend of my husband's and mine. My name is Mary Tilden," she explained, and let go of my hand. "I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Ross, and further pleased to spend the day together."

"Spend the day together? I apologize, Mrs. Tilden. My step-father told me nothing of this."

"Oh, yes, yes. Of course. Mr. Croft asked me to show you through town today. I know how boring it can be to be shut up in a house all day, and I wouldn't want you to roam around a strange city alone."

In fact I wanted nothing more than to go about my business unaccompanied, but this I did not indicate to Mrs. Tilden; and when we stepped onto the porch and the lady's arm arrested mine, I knew I would have a slim chance of escaping her this afternoon.

Mrs. Tilden took me first to see all Dallas had to offer in finery, under the assumption I was interested in such things, and insisted I purchase a wide silk-ribbon hat, which she assured me was the latest fashion in Europe. Mrs. Tilden was very kind and I did not blame her for the inconvenience she caused—for it was an inconvenience I did not make known—but I wished to get away from her just the same, if only for an hour.

I found my chance when Mrs. Tilden and I passed through a crowd listening to the ramblings of a street preacher, a rare opening when the woman did not have hold of my arm. I escaped her sight and ducked into a narrow side-street which cut through to the next.

A cab-driver directed me to the nearest post office several blocks away and I proceeded there, looking over my shoulder for any sign of Mrs. Tilden's blond hair and floral hat. I was hopeful the postal service would have some record of LaBoeuf or a way to find him. Though I knew him to live in El Paso, I expected his adventures sometimes brought him to pass through Dallas.

At the post office, a graying man leaned-back on a stool behind the counter stood to greet me, a gesture of respectability which was not so often granted before my visible improvements in dress.

I told him, "I am looking for the address of a man by the name of LaBoeuf, a ranger from El Paso. I wonder if you have any record of him."

"Luh-Beef?" said the man with a yellow grin. "You sure he ain't a cowhand?"

"Yes, sir, unless the cowhands here in Texas take to wearing silver stars and apprehending fugitives with their lassos."

He chuckled again. "I will look for any mail for any LaBoeuf, but it ain't exactly our procedure to document every Texas Ranger passing through town."

He went into the back of the office and remained a minute before emerging with an envelope in hand. My heart skipped at the sight of it; I could scarcely believe I was not imagining it there.

"We have one for LaBoeuf—but the only address on it is the office yer standing in. I would say it got routed here while he was in town and he ain't came to retrieve it. Don't look too old."

There indeed was LaBoeuf's name scrawled on the paper, in handwriting I could not believe I recognized—the sender's name was none other than that of U.S. Marshal Reuben Cogburn! I hastened to open the envelope but the postman snatched it from my hands before I could.

"This letter is intended for Mr. LaBoeuf, and I can see clearly you ain't the gentleman."

"Mr. LaBoeuf is a friend of mine," I insisted.

"A friend he may be, but unless he is your husband, brother, or father, I cannot hand you this letter."

Before he could take the envelope back to its pigeonhole, I quickly said, "I would like to send a telegram, then."

He sighed. "To Mr. LaBoeuf? For whom you have no address?"

"I will take faith that some living soul at the telegraph station in El Paso knows him. I am certain all the rangers are well-known there."

"We have no direct line to El Paso. It will relay through Austin and Houston, which is expensive."

"How expensive?"

"Roundabout three dollars, depending how wordy you are."

Even as rich and desperate to reach LaBoeuf as I was then, I could not rationalize paying such an amount for such a short message. I was partly under the impression the postman produced this outrageous estimate solely to send me out of his hair as quickly as possible. However—the purpose of my asking for a telegram was completed. The man turned his back when he finished with me and forgot Mr. LaBoeuf's letter on the counter. I swiped it into my pouch and hastened toward the door, asking forgiveness from God as I did.

"Hey!" the postman called, and I stopped in my track.

I faced him.

"You want to check in at the sheriff's office," said he. "If you say this LaBoeuf is a ranger, our sheriff will know him, and have a good idea of where to find him."

"Thank you, sir," I said, and left.

I was eager to see the letter's contents and had a mind to stop on the porch and read it there; however I did not wish to give the postman an opportunity to catch me when he noticed the absence of the envelope, so I hurried onto the street and back toward the alleyway I used on my way here.

I found Mrs. Tilden fretting in the same area I left her. She exclaimed when she saw me, "There you are, Miss Ross! Thank God—you had me on pins and needles!"

We resumed our day, my frail companion none the wiser; but I could not continue perusing dresses and hats and jewelry another hour before inventing a headache and asking to retire to the hotel. Mrs. Tilden, ever obliging, accompanied me the entire way back to my room, her arm steadily clutching mine until we arrived at the door.

I watched through the front window of my room as she climbed into a hackney-carriage and rode away. I then refastened the ribbon of my bonnet around my chin and left the hotel in a sudden and miraculous recovery.

The sheriff's office in Dallas was a sturdy red-brick building across from the court-house and conjoined to the city police station, large and simple, with a pretty white-roofed porch. As I approached it, I absurdly envisioned the door opening to see LaBoeuf, standing tall and smug before me. It was instead a pair of dull gray eyes and bushy eyebrows which greeted me through a hatch in the door.

They looked me up and down, lingering on my half-arm, and asked incredulously, "There something I can help you with, ma'am?"

"Yes. My name is Mattie Ross. I am in search of a certain Texas Ranger. I was told the sheriff might know how to locate him."

"You look a little young to be another one of Brigg's girls."

"I am sure I do not know what you mean, sir. The ranger I am looking for is LaBoeuf."

His eyes disappeared from the slot and I heard the turning of heavy metal locks before the door opened. The man, young and blond and thin as a stick, ushered me into a plain room. There was not much in it but a wooden cabinet and a simple round table, where four men sat playing cards, all smoking a pipe or cigarette and filling the space with a silvery haze. They each stared at me; the long-whiskered one in the corner leaned sideways to see past another's head.

The young man who welcomed me in led me away, back through a narrow hall to an open door. This office was better furnished than the first, lined with disorganized shelves and benches, all surrounding a desk, on which sat an unlit oil lamp and a mess of papers, and the muddy boots of a man leaned back in his chair, his hat rested low over his forehead and eyes, revealing only a big, round nose and a black goatee-beard. This I assumed was the sheriff.

The young man rapped on the door to assert our presence, but the man at the desk did not stir. "This girl is asking about LaBoeuf, the ranger," he said.

"I am afraid you just missed him," said the sheriff with surprising reflex; I did not think he was awake. Yet he remained with his feet on the desk and hat over his face. "He was here looking for a fugitive named Cobb. Caught wind of him being south and left yesterday afternoon."

My heart sank. This could not be true. LaBoeuf must have been hiding in the next room, or never was here at all—only my remaining sense, which was gradually surrendering, knew there to be no falsehood about it. Yesterday afternoon—he departed just as my train pulled into the station; and I arrived just as he rode off into the wilderness, hot on the trail, just as I envisioned him these past years. Just a day ago—I had been so close! Had Mr. Croft scheduled the train a day earlier; had I the audacity to ask after LaBoeuf as soon as we arrived in Dallas, I might have caught him.

Seeing my displeasure, the younger man said, "He's off only to San Angela. There is a chance the man spotted there is not Cobb and if that is the case, I expect it will be hardly two days before he returns."

"If that is not the case, and given he finds no further trouble in San Angela, he will be headed back to El Paso with his captured man—if it is the right man," rambled the sheriff. He straightened his posture and replaced his hat at the top of his head to have a better look at me, but his legs remained discourteously propped up before him. "Almost as hard to keep track of a ranger as it is an outlaw." He grinned.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said I, and went to the door.

"How'd you lose that arm?" the sheriff hollered.

It was not unlike strangers to ask, and very like them to ask rudely; I paused, said, "When I was fourteen I shot a man at close range with a Sharps rifle and the kick sent me into a pit of snakes. I was bit and the arm was amputated," and turned out of the room.

The deputy showed me to the porch, and though it was blinding day, the street felt as lonely and dark as midnight.

I then would have lost all hopefulness of meeting LaBoeuf in Dallas, if desperation did not drive me to cling to the last irrational trace of hope within me. I retired to the hotel and idled there for the remainder of the day, seriously dejected. When Mr. Croft returned in the late afternoon from his business he found his step-daughter in an unfortunate state, afflicted with a headache which had gone, from when I described it to Mrs. Tilden, from imaginary to regrettably authentic. I put aside these dispirits long enough to join the other boarders for dinner, thinking nourishment would do me well, or at least halt my stupid fretting in the darkness of my room; but the conversation there served to worsen the wound inflicted at the sheriff's office, when Croft reminded me of our train back to Arkansas the day after tomorrow—exactly when the sheriff's deputy predicted LaBoeuf would return to Dallas, if he was to return at all.

Sleep was difficult that night. My room came alive with the glow of a waxing Texas moon; light muddled with shadow, distorting the objects around me into frightening shapes I could not help but stare at until my heart raced. I could not sleep.

Restlessness tickled my arms and legs; I rose from bed and went into the hall. There too the walls were painted strange and frightening by the moonlight. The grandfather clock, as I went quietly down the stairs toward it, gave me a scare, but I eagerly continued past it, and past the sitting-rooms, across the long lobby to the back porch. A gush of cold air felt alarmingly like the beginnings of autumn, and like home. All I could see before me were dark homes, and the dark sky above, laid over by a blanket of stars, and the silver crescent moon among them.

Really I was floating, laying in the air, with my face toward the clouds. I was born on the ground and had never left it till now. Some folks never knew the ground, but I did. I knew how to walk with one foot in front of the other and watch the world before me—but now I had floated away, been carried on the wind up to the sky, and paralyzed by the sun and clouds. I could scarcely remember what walking felt like. And now I was in Dallas floating around in the Dallas sky, trying to hold onto air, trying to pin myself down to nothing.

I did not know what I ever meant to accomplish here in this city, and began to cry. I feared someone hearing me, a weeping girl in the quiet night, and hunched down to stifle the tears in my nightgown. I did not want to go home to Little Rock, to my wardrobe of dresses and silk hats and lace gloves, to piano lessons and Mr. Croft's dinner parties—I wanted to go home to the farm and see Papa's boots sat inside the door, and see him smoking his pipe at the fireplace and Mama smiling like she never did anymore and cooking bacon, and Victoria chasing Frankie around the kitchen. I wanted to see LaBoeuf and the Marshal. I wanted all the things I did not have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much more to come. I adore feedback! Please comment with ANY thoughts you have!!
> 
> I wanted to explore a softer side of Mattie, so I apologize if anyone finds her slightly off character. This was supposed to be a simple Mattie/LaBoeuf one-shot about them meeting up again but it snowballed into a completely different animal.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please come back for the next chapter!


	2. A Surprising Dinner-Guest

Mrs. Tilden did not call on me again the next morning, for which I was grateful. I rose at noon, the consequence of a late night; I had quit my tears not long after they began, but remained in that folded position on the porch for some time, and remained awake in bed longer still, my own thoughts fatiguing themselves until my eyes closed.

Mr. Croft would be around earlier to bring me to the Tildens for dinner; I hastened to check in with the sheriff before he returned.

"This inanity has reached a new peak, Mattie Ross," I said to myself while settling into a cab. What more could the sheriff say today, which had not been said the day before? Surely LaBoeuf did not return from San Angela so quickly. The sheriff himself opened the door and did not show me into the office before announcing he had heard nothing from the ranger.

I roamed afterward through the clothing district Mrs. Tilden and I spent time in the previous afternoon and passed a shop I had not seen then, with overcoats exhibited in the dusty window. Upon one of the displays sat a gray hat like the one I inherited from my father, which had not fit my head when I first tried it on, and likely never would. It now sat in a box in my wardrobe in Little Rock; I no longer had practical use for it. I sometimes tried it on and studied myself in the mirror. It clashed noticeably with my gloves and bustles.

I had half a mind to go into the store and buy the similar hat off its bust, but went instead to buy a necklace to wear for our evening dinner with the Tildens. I suspected Mr. Croft would be displeased in his irritatingly mute way if his step-daughter did not bear the appropriate "embellishments" for the occasion.

 

By eventide I had accepted I would not see LaBoeuf during this visit to Texas, or perhaps ever again, and that acceptance sat in me as a lowly discomfort—a discomfort I was suited to examine at a later date, in the isolation of my own bedroom; a girl any less wise would not have recognized the irrationality of this heartache and given immediate heed to her sensations. With time, I told myself, I would come to fully recognize the silliness of all this.

One side of me asked, "why are you upset over this Texan clodhopper, who you knew for so little time?"; the other wept. I was deeply troubled over nothing and deeply ashamed of myself for being so.

The Tilden's carriage arrived at 5 o'clock to retrieve Mr. Croft and I from the hotel, and delivered us to a splendid stone house at the edge of town with a well-groomed garden and a sturdy iron fence. The home was modern and ornate with pretty green trimmings, and we were welcomed by a servant into a great mahogany hall decorated with beautiful rugs and a magnificent chandelier. The Tildens were immensely wealthy. I marveled at the carved ceilings until the servant directed us to a parlor where the lord and lady of the house waited.

The couple sat on either side of a marble fireplace, Mrs. Tilden with her needlework and Mr. Tilden with a newspaper, and both stood to greet us as we entered. Mrs. Tilden smothered me in a surprising hug. "Miss Ross! I am so glad you came," she said, as if she doubted I would appear.

Her husband was tall and reasonably handsome, his brown hair and trim beard lightened by spots of gray, though he could not be more than forty. He smiled an alarmingly white smile as he shook my hand. "Hello," he greeted, and spoke in an unexpected coastal drawl.

The men had scotch while we waited for dinner to be announced. I was offered a glass of sherry by a servant, which granted me a sentiment of maturity, but which I declined.

"Miss Ross, your step-father tells us you are an accomplished lady and a devout reader," said Mrs. Tilden with excitement as we four settled down in the parlor. "I am a lover of novels myself. I could spend days on end in the library!"

"You might say that books even have a medicinal property for my wife. I've witnessed their miraculous power on several occasions," said Mr. Tilden. "Often we've left important engagements after Mrs. Tilden complains of an ailment, and after she is laid in bed at home, you will find her completely recovered with a novel in her hands."

I disregarded Tilden's ill-natured comment and agreed with his wife. "I do enjoy reading," said I. "Though, it is a lately developed love. I am not as great a reader as other educated girls of my age."

Mr. Croft interjected, "You can't imagine how difficult it is to disrupt the habits of a farmer's daughter and persuade her to pursue feminine activities."

I added, "It is almost as difficult to persuade Mr. Croft to partake in activity of any kind. I am sure you can gage that difficulty with one look at him."

A grin slid across the lips of Mrs. Tilden; Mr. Tilden laughed blatantly. The only one who did not find this amusing was Mr. Croft, and he hastily turned the conversation over to business, about stocks and the sawmill he had crafted out of our "humble" Arkansas farmland.

"That is a lovely necklace, Miss Ross," said Mrs. Tilden to me, leaning away from the men. Before I could thank her, she continued, "Would you be pleased to follow me into the library? We have a fine collection."

I was instead more interested in what Mr. Croft was saying to Mr. Tilden than any library. At home I was restricted from knowing of business of any sort and was eager to hear about our acreage in Yell County. For months I suspected an atrocity had been done to the house or the barn; if it had, Mr. Croft was likely keeping the news from his volatile step-daughter however he could. Indeed even Mama would likely not tell me if our farm was demolished. She knew I disliked her husband enough already, among many reasons, because of his possession of our old land. However, the men did not show any intent to include myself or Mrs. Tilden in their discussion; and Mrs. Tilden, before I could assert my preference to sit, left the room with the expectation I would follow.

We went across the hall to a pair of heavy mahogany doors which opened into the library. It was a smallish but impressive room, with an overwhelming fireplace that matched the one in the parlor. Most arresting were the bookshelves that lined the room to from floor to ceiling, and were themselves lined with books of every color and size, and decorated here and there by vases and trinkets.

Mrs. Tilden walked to a shelf beside the fireplace, leaving me at the threshold of the room, uncertain of how to proceed. I watched as she pulled a thin book from the volumes and began reading at a middle page, and thought perhaps she forgot my presence. Just inside the room was a desk, and I could not help my curiosity but glance at the large book that laid open there; I stepped nearer and saw it was a ledger, filled with the bold, chaotic writing of a man. The record detailed weekly purchases of cotton and was carelessly taken down, with several dates and sums missing. Beside the book was a pile of correlating invoices; I felt compelled to take up a pen and correct the ledger's mistakes, before I was reminded of Mrs. Tilden's occupancy of the room.

"Are you an admirer of Shakespeare?" she asked abruptly. I looked up and stepped away from the desk, suddenly apprehensive of the privacy I had trespassed; but Mrs. Tilden's eyes had not averted from the text in her hand.

I walked closer to her, and saw the book she held was old and tiny, no larger than the width of her hand. "I cannot say," said I. "I have never read Shakespeare."

"Never read Shakespeare? Not even _Romeo and Juliet_?" said she, with a smile that displayed her gapped teeth. "Why, were you born in a barn?"

My host did not mean anything harmful by this remark; but I could not help but purse my mouth. Fortunately, her eyes were returned to the book and did not catch my leer.

"This belonged to my father," said she. A closer examination showed the paper inside was browned and brittle, and as she turned the pages I saw the edges were cracked and torn. "I inherited all of his belongings last winter, when he passed." She closed the book and handed it to me. "I would like you to have it."

"I cannot," said I.

"Please do. It is my favorite of all his works and I would like very much for you to have it—for your journey home tomorrow. I have so many other copies," she said with a wave of her little hand around the other books.

"All right," I said with reluctance and accepted it from her, for the volume was already pushed entirely into my hand. The cover was soft red leather, the title inscribed in timeworn gold letters: _Macbeth_. "Are you certain, Mrs. Tilden? It did belong to your father. I would not give away any little thing my father left to me."

There was a momentary difference in her manner, a stoicism, altogether more genuine than her wide grins and flighty movements. "I forgot you lost your father as well," she said. "How long ago did he pass?"

"Four years," said I, scarcely believing it was so long. "I was fourteen. He was shot and killed by a drunken criminal." I stopped myself before any more could be said. I did not desire pity, but still I received it when Mrs. Tilden frowned and laid her hand on my shoulder.

Her eyes fell to my neck; then she turned on a dime, to happier thoughts, and smiled. "That really is a lovely necklace," said she, touching the pendant on my collar. "Let's go back to the parlor. I hear from Mr. Croft you play quite well."

 _Quite well_ was an overstatement of a one-armed girl's capabilities on the piano, but Mr. and Mrs. Tilden encouraged my playing nonetheless. I chose the tune I knew best among the collection of music, _Marble Halls_ , and played it slowly and poorly, Mrs. Tilden standing beside me to turn the papers and provide the other clef. My tiny audience applauded when we finished, despite myself likely being the worst musician to lay a hand on this set of ivory.

I was grateful that, just as Mr. Tilden insisted I play another song, the doorbell rang from the hall.

"Who could that be?" said Mrs. Tilden. "Go ahead and play, Miss Ross. I think whoever it is would like to hear some music when they come in."

I set the music on its stand and began the song, really desiring to have our dinner, end the evening, and be back in Little Rock the next day with my family. I hit a sour chord on the keys when a servant welcomed to the parlor our unexpected guest. In a dark suede coat and curled-brim hat, stood Mr. LaBoeuf.

My awry chord alarmed the room to the presence of the newcomer. I stood at once from the piano stool, as did Mr. Croft and Mr. Tilden from their chairs. LaBoeuf removed his hat and held it at his side; he appeared out of place in the cozy parlor, days of travel visible on his unshaven face, his unkempt figure framed by ornate crown moldings and mahogany wainscoting. One mud-caked boot rested on the gleaming wooden floor, the other on a Persian rug.

"We did not anticipate another guest for dinner," said Mr. Tilden.

"Forgive me, I do not wish to intrude on your evening," replied LaBoeuf.

I had nearly forgotten his voice, and though I had previously disfavored his far-western twang, the sound of it now sent my heart racing.

He continued, "I am sorry to disturb you at this inconvenient hour, Mr. Tilden, but my business is urgent. My name is LaBoeuf. I am a Texas Ranger from El Paso, and I am here in pursuit of a fugitive from that area. However, if my timing is too obtrusive, I will return at a later hour, or in the morning." He nodded politely toward Mrs. Tilden and I; I hoped it was not wishful thinking that his gaze lingered on me, before Mr. Tilden addressed him again.

"Now is not too inconvenient. Our dinner is not yet ready, and I will not be available tomorrow morning."

"Very well. Might we speak in the hall?" LaBoeuf asked.

Tilden did not bother to move, standing comfortably before the ranger with his glass of scotch still in hand. "Anything you have to say may be said before my wife and guests, if the news is not gruesome."

"Not very, sir," said LaBoeuf, and Tilden invited him to sit on the sofa. He eyed me once more as everyone took their seats.

Mrs. Tilden went to her husband's side and I resat on the piano stool. Mr. Croft took his chair by the fireplace; he declined into it like he had never moved, and regarded LaBoeuf with beady eyes as he supped his scotch.

"The man I am tracking came into Texas from New Mexico. He gave me the runabout in the south, but I finally pinned him here. I've gathered intelligence he has tried to make several underhanded deals with local wealth like yourself."

I did not enjoy staring at the back of LaBoeuf's head as he spoke, and the ill-managed length of his hair, but I was too unnerved by his presence to move from the piano and reposition myself.

"Is the name Freddy Cobb familiar to you or your wife?" he asked.

"I don't believe so," said Tilden, apprehensively.

I hardly followed their exchange, so preoccupied was I by the thundering of my thoughts and heart. It was a ridiculous inward feeling, like my stomach had left my body; I cursed my lost fortitude. Two spirits dwelt within me—the true Mattie, the side of myself I was familiar with, and this new Mattie, who fretted over men and daydreamed whole afternoons away.

"What about Frank McCabe? That is his alias," asked LaBoeuf.

I caught sight of Mr. Croft, leaned back in the leather armchair across the room. He studied the two men before him in silence, disloyal to his usual technique of interfering in business which was not his own. There came from his eyes a sinister energy, from the tapping of his fat fingers against the armchair, his regard of LaBoeuf with each drink of scotch, his eyes sometimes sliding leftwards to observe Tilden's expression.

"Less than a week ago I was approached by a man combing town for investors in a mining project, but I told him to look elsewhere," said Tilden. "I told him to look east. Every man who is any man in Dallas already has his money in one mining venture or another."

Croft could wait no longer to open his mouth. "I heard a similar story yesterday from a friend of mine," said he; the sinister look had gone from his eyes. "He told me a man from El Paso came around asking about investors for a California mine. The deal seemed a lot too good to be honest and the man had nothing by the way of bills or specifics—seemed all he wanted was fast money."

LaBoeuf turned his attention to Mr. Croft, but I could not see his face or discern his demeanor as he paused to consider this information. "What is the name of this friend?"

"J. A. Hanna," said Croft without hesitation, and with another turn of his scotch. "I came down from Little Rock two days ago to meet with him. He owns a dry goods emporium."

"And your name, sir?"

At this Croft did indeed hesitate. His eyes went briefly to my face, then returned to LaBoeuf's. "John Croft," said he. "At the piano is my step-daughter."

I was at a loss for what to say. I certainly could not inform Mr. Croft the ranger and I were already acquainted. He knew a minor portion of the story of my father's death and nothing of my hand in the fate of his killer; that set of facts I did not advertise and my mother actively concealed. LaBoeuf turned to look over the back of the sofa at me, his arm rested briefly up on the pillow. He smiled and said only, "Hello," before turning back to the men.

He did recognize me—I saw it there in his eyes, unless this was merely another instance of wishful thinking—though he did not acknowledge it and I did not know why. He recognized me; I could only be grateful he did not presently announce it.

He said to the others, "Is there anything else you remember about Cobb, or whoever approached you? Did he happen to mention where he is staying?"

Tilden paused to think. "He did not say much I am afraid, except about this supposed mine. He was thin, short, with brown hair down to his shoulder. He was polite, ungroomed, had a front tooth missing along the bottom. He did not stay long after I told him I was not interested."

Mrs. Tilden sat beside him on the velvet sofa, her fingers fidgeting against one another in her lap. "Is this Cobb some kind of swindler?" she asked.

"That and more, ma'am," answered LaBoeuf. "I advise caution should either of you run into him again. He can be a dangerous man." He stood and so did Mr. and Mrs. Tilden in succession. Croft remained seated, looking at neither of them, his eyes centered on the finished drink in his hand. "I am grateful for your assistance. Please contact Sheriff Randolph at the court-house if anything more occurs to you."

I rose from the piano stool as LaBoeuf replaced his hat.

"We are about to dine," said Tilden abruptly. "Our party tonight is small. Not one of us would mind an addition to the table."

"Thank you," said LaBoeuf, "I regret I have further business to attend to tonight, and already I am weary. But I would be much obliged if you would suggest where I may chance upon a warm bed in town."

"The Centennial Inn!" I exclaimed; the statement jumped from my throat. These were the first words I spoke since LaBoeuf entered and the rest of the room noted me with perplexity. "On Elm Street," I continued placidly. "That is where Mr. Croft and I are staying. Our rooms are comfortable."

"Thank you," said LaBoeuf, then turned to look at Mr. Croft planted in his chair. "Perhaps I will see you there later tonight."

Croft smiled with a closed mouth. "Splendid."

Mr. Tilden showed LaBoeuf out to the hall. Mrs. Tilden proclaimed how dreadful it was to be connected in any way to crime, and I watched through a window behind the piano as LaBoeuf trotted down the porch-steps to his horse, tied to the gate. As he mounted and rode away, a servant announced that dinner was served.

Throughout our meal I yearned to return to the hotel and see LaBoeuf. I could not think of what I might say to him; only that I desired to see him. I could not be certain he recognized me, and neither could I imagine he had not. I was sure it never occurred to LaBoeuf that he would see me again at a piano, in a satin evening gown, in the parlor of a Dallas mansion.

Mr. Croft was uncharacteristically quiet over dinner as well, though I did not mind an evening wanting his haughty declarations and bellowing laugh. He exchanged only glances with Mr. Tilden every so often, and nodded along occasionally to what Mrs. Tilden talked about; she did the most talking, so much that the rest of us finished each course long before she. I contributed what I could to the conversation, between the speculations about Mr. LaBoeuf which repeatedly intruded upon my thoughts.

His words with Mr. Tilden and Croft repeated in my head. I wondered if this Freddy Cobb, or McCabe, as he also called him, was the same man the sheriff's deputy said he sought in San Angela. I had many questions for him; I sorted through them in my mind, considering how to greet him when we returned to the hotel. Dinner could not be finished quickly enough, but afterward Tilden and Croft went to his study to smoke and Mrs. Tilden and I withdrew to the parlor.

She exhibited an album of photographs Mr. Tilden brought from Saint Louis last month, but even the brilliant pictures could not distract me long before my attention returned to the thought of seeing LaBoeuf at the hotel. I hoped Mr. Croft would not be long in finishing his cigar. Mrs. Tilden soon noticed my distraction from the conversation and instead took up her needlework. I opened the copy of Macbeth I was given earlier in the evening, though really I was simply staring at the words and observing none of them, as distant as I had grown.

It was getting late and neither of the men returned from the study. I grew impatient and put down my book to go into the hall. The study was past the stairs beyond the library. The hall was dark, all of the oil lamps extinguished, and the door was easily distinguishable, being the only one in the hall where a slit of light shone out at the bottom. As I got nearer I heard voices, Mr. Tilden's and Mr. Croft's, arguing. One of them yelled "No!" emphatically, but I could not tell which it was. He spoke on quieter, and I stepped closer to the door to hear what was being said. Pressing my ear against the wood I heard Croft say, "—and what do you propose we do if he—" before a delicate hand rested on my shoulder. I turned to Mrs. Tilden standing behind me.

 

The streets of town were dark and abandoned when Tilden's carriage returned us to the hotel. Only the light from a front window guided our way up to the porch. Mr. Croft entered before me in his usual discourteous mode. Knowing LaBoeuf was likely inside, I staggered on the porch before swallowing my foolishness and going in.

The french doors to the sitting-room directly off the lobby sat open, and the murmurings of polite conversation came from within. Croft stood in the threshold of the parlor as I entered, bidding good evening to the guests there. I stepped in behind him and looked over his shoulder to see if LaBoeuf was among them.

He sat facing the hall, in a wicker rocking-chair between the unlit fireplace and the front window, smoking his pipe. A woman and her daughter sat on the couch beside him sewing. I looked away and pretended to be busy removing my shawl.

Mr. Croft said to me, "Go on to your room. I'm going to dally in the parlor with our fellow guests."

I made no reply, and glanced into the sitting-room as I walked past it, toward the stairway. LaBoeuf met my gaze briefly, looking beyond Mr. Croft's bulky figure in the threshold, before his eyes lifted to meet my step-father's. I longed to speak to him; but not in the presence of anyone but ourselves.

I went halfway up the stairs before stopping at the landing to eavesdrop on the parlor conversation. Mr. Croft bellowed with dubious sincerity how good it was that LaBoeuf found our recommendation satisfying; LaBoeuf replied quietly and I could not decipher his words. I went the remainder of the way up to the second-floor and to my room; but I had no plans to unfold my nightdress and remove myself for the night..

I retrieved the letter I had stolen from the post office from where it laid among the center pages of my Bible, with the intention of turning it over to LaBoeuf (an intention I could now conceivably fulfill), and placed it in my pocket. Thinking now of delivering it to LaBoeuf unnerved me; I could devise no reasonable explanation for why I possessed the letter in the first place.

There was no telling how long Mr. Croft would keep LaBoeuf. It could very well be hours before I heard the opening and closing of his door in the next room, and neither my tiredness nor my desire to speak to LaBoeuf could wait so long. I feared as well that LaBoeuf would retire to his room before Croft, and destroy this opportunity to speak with him, and disappear from the hotel the next morning before we ever spoke one private word. I put on my quietest slippers and left the room not ten minutes after I entered.

No more than two lamps in the passageway were lit at this time of night, leaving me to walk in and out of shadows till I came to the stairwell and the illumination from the lobby below.

Mr. Croft was speaking in his loud and nonsensical way. I looked into the darkness of the hallway behind me, and the door to my room at the other end, and told myself simply to go to it. I instead continued down to the landing. The men's voices were clearer now, travelling up from the open doors of the sitting-room. Mr. Croft went on describing our home in Little Rock and boasting about his proficiency in business and trade.

I hoped LaBoeuf maintained his guise of being a stranger to me and my family.

If the gentlemen had not changed their seats, Mr. Croft would be sat facing the window, and Mr. LaBoeuf across from him at an angle, facing the other door of the sitting-room which connected it to the dining-room. I supposed this was my best chance to lure him out without rousing the suspicions of my step-father.

The sitting-room threshold was not far from the bottom of the stairway, shedding its light onto the darkened hall; I trod delicately down each step, taking care not to press a loose floorboard, and waiting for each moment Mr. Croft or Mr. LaBoeuf's voice rose in volume to cover my movements, until I reached the safe tiled floor of the hall. To avoid stepping into the view of anyone seated in the parlor, I turned sharply around the end of the banister and went down the hall to the dining room. All was dark, darker than upstairs, and the large dining-room was pitch-black with its heavy curtains drawn, but for the rectangle of warm light in its wall that was its connection to the sitting-room, illuminating several round eating-tables.

The threshold between the sitting-room and the dining-room was not as wide as any of the others, and was not any wider than was necessary for more than two bodies to pass through at a time.

I worked my way toward it, staying in the perimeter to avoid the dozen or so tables in the room, careful not to have my skirt catch on any of the chairs or tablecloths. I hid with my shoulder to the wall, able to see a mere sliver of the parlor—the fireplace and its mantle-mirror. In its reflection was part of LaBoeuf's head, and nothing more. Mr. Croft's voice placed him just on the other side of the wall. It was foolish and cowardly to sneak around like this; I preferred to step right into that parlor and state my business, but there was no way I could bring myself to do it. I was rightfully ashamed of my foolishness; the foolishness that brought me here to Texas and now led me to do more foolish things.

"I never enjoyed children," said Croft. A glass of whiskey or something like it clinked in his hand. "But if it weren't for the oldest girl's devilish tongue, I'd say my wife's are tolerable. The boy I like, however, and the other girl is young enough to be made into a fine young lady, with the proper encouragement. As for the eldest, I have lost all hope of taming her country manners. My patience is worn thin in trying to interest her in more noble pursuits than rolling around in hay."

He laughed his beastly chortle, and I thought of ten different witty things to say with my "devilish" tongue that would put Croft in his place right that moment; but I kept still on my side of the wall. LaBoeuf made no reply, and Croft went on without hesitation. With an uninterrupted supply of whiskey and somebody to tolerate his blathering, he would go on all night. I leaned to one side and gandered into the room.

The back of Mr. Croft's armchair faced me, with only the balding and sun-burnt top of his head to identify him; Mr. LaBoeuf sat across the room from Croft, a glass in his hand as well, untouched; the women who had been sewing on the sofa were gone. Croft prattled on about recent business successes and LaBoeuf looked most uninterested and tired, though his eyes were steady on Croft with an intensity I had not seen earlier.

I stepped partly into the threshold, leaning forward to gain LaBoeuf's attention, unsuccessfully. I did not wish to make a spectacle and alarm Mr. Croft to my presence, whose back was not more than five feet from myself. I made a little quiet gesture of my hand and Mr. LaBoeuf's eyes shifted to me. I waved him toward myself and his eyes returned to Croft.

Slipping back into the shadow of the dining-room wall, I could only hope he heeded my message. I listened with disheartenment as Mr. Croft went on without interruption.

"Excuse me, Mr. Croft," said LaBoeuf after a long moment, and I caught my breath, "but I have some business to attend to at the back of the house." There was a familiar metallic jingle as he rose.

"Of course! Of course!" Croft bellowed with a laugh and an audible gulp of his drink.

LaBoeuf's heavy bootsteps came steadily toward the dining room and I stepped aside just as he came through the doorway, his wide shoulders blocking out nearly all the light from the parlor. He paused only briefly to grab my wrist, scoldingly, and raise a finger to his mouth that told me to hush; as if I had not just traipsed all the way from my room without so much as creaking a board.

Whatever noise my slippers or skirts made were covered by LaBoeuf's loud boots and spurs, as he led me quickly to the end of the hall and out to the back-porch, his hand still wrapped around my wrist like a belt. The door clapped shut behind us and LaBoeuf pulled me down the steps to the dirt alley, dreary with the faint light of a half-moon.

"What is so important, Miss Ross, that you must sneak behind another man's back to have my attention?" he asked in a low voice before letting go of my arm.

Any charm I may have felt was dispersed by the roughness of LaBoeuf's tone and demeanor with me; I forgot all my romantic dreams of our reunion. "I am glad to see you have lost none of your civility," said I. I rubbed my wrist against my side, which had turned pink under his assault.

"What is it, Miss Ross?"

"I wished to talk to you away from my step-father's observation, and I wished to avert the possibility you would be gone by breakfast." After a pause I continued on another note, "The sheriff here said you were hunting a man in San Angela till at least tomorrow."

LaBoeuf lifted his chin at me. "How came you to meet Sheriff Randolph?"

"I went to the sheriff's place, there sat the sheriff. Who, I add, gave the impression of being not nearly active enough to hold office in a town of this size. Now why did you come to Mr. Tilden's house tonight? I know your sole purpose could not be for so weak an interrogation as you performed."

He stopped to consider me, his brow and mouth flat with displeasure. It appeared he had forgotten how to speak on a level of wit. "How did you know the sheriff would know of me?" he asked.

"It is not important. If Tilden was not your target, who did you come there for? Surely not Mrs. Tilden. I can hardly see what she would know of outlaws," I huffed. Unless his object was not either resident of the house, and was instead one of its guests; I asked, "Was it Mr. Croft you were after?"

"I do not see how it is likely I knew Croft would be there tonight," said LaBoeuf.

"What bounty hunter has so little faith in his ability to track a man to the home of a well-known friend? You knew exactly who Tilden's guests would be this evening."

He paused. "I did not know you would be there."

The tenderness with which he said this brought embarrassment and heat to my cheeks, and I was grateful we stood not in telltale light. The half-moon hung in the sky over LaBoeuf's shoulder, casting every feature beneath his hat in shadow. If his face expressed a sentiment which betrayed the warmth of his voice, I could not distinguish it. Without presuming his intentions, I made no move to return the warmth in defiance of the urge I felt to do so, and felt for years.

Disregarding this turmoil, I kept my eyes fixed seriously on the ranger's face. "What do you want with an industrialist in the investigation of a highway robber?"

"Do you suppose I would share knowledge, even with a lady, of an investigation in which you have no part?"

"I most certainly have a part in it," I answered. "You cannot suggest my step-father is involved in illegal business and then expect me to go on routinely, and follow him back to Little Rock, all the while wondering what his crime is. I will assume the worst. How is Mr. Croft involved with your man?"

LaBoeuf remained quiet.

"Fine," said I, "then I will ask Mr. Croft himself about it."

I picked up my skirt and went toward the stairs, but LaBoeuf caught my arm before I could move far.

"If you make a sudden accusation toward Croft, you will regret it deeply."

He released me and I remained in the alley. I now stood very near to him. The seriousness of his tone frightened me, but I did not let my fright reveal itself.

"First you will tell me what your business is with my step-father—or are you saying these things simply to unnerve me, and leave me frightened of my one chaperone in this city?"  
LaBoeuf scratched his forehead, tilting his hat slightly off his head, before tugging it back in place. He looked away, to the side-door of the hotel, and sighed in exasperation. "You are not going to like it," he said, then muttered, "I have not known a woman who has attracted so much misfortune to a single family."

"Get on with it, Mr. LaBoeuf. Now you are acting to unnerve me without laying out real facts."

"John Croft, your step-father—I believe he is not who he says. I cannot be positive, but I suspect in reality he is an old partner of Freddy Cobb, the man I set out from El Paso to track down. The two were part of a gang running robberies as far up the Mississippi as Saint Louis, but they have not been seen together in seven years at least. This man's name was James D. Donohue, but he matches the description of your step-father." He paused to allow me to absorb the news, but detecting no change in my condition, he continued, "I suspected both were dead in a ditch somewhere between here and Memphis, prior to a few weeks ago, when the victims of a burglary identified their assailant by Cobb's photograph. I did not even think of his partner Donohue until I found him in connection with your step-father."

A foul mixture of satisfaction and dread churned in my gut. At once I was satisfied that my longstanding ill-will toward Mr. Croft could be justified by so villainous a revelation; on the other, if Mr. Croft's true identity was James D. Donohue, this was my step-father, and the husband of my mother; I dreaded to think of the consequences, and what aggravation this would be to my mother's nerves when she found out.

"But you cannot be certain," said I, "that he and this Donohue are the same?"

"Not certain. But I espied him yesterday speaking in what he thought was private with Freddy Cobb. I could not hear what they were saying, so when they parted I followed Donohue instead. That was how I came to Tilden's. And Croft looks similar to Donohue, though I have seen only one photograph of him, and it was a decade old."

My throat ran dry as my certainty of Mr. Croft being a worser villain than I ever imagined solidified. "If you saw him with Cobb, that means he lied this evening when you asked if he knew the man. He attested he heard the name through a friend. A lie surely confirms his guilt."

He made no reply. Pity rolled in his down-turned eyes, as if he feared driving me into some bad state by affirming my supposition. I grew frustrated with his reluctance to reveal the details. "You do not have to protect me from the truth, Mr. LaBoeuf," I spat. "It is better I know the full story, if my guardian is not to be trusted."

He matched my abrasiveness with a dissatisfied twist of his mouth. "Then you should know that in their days of crime, Donohue and Cobb and the rest of their gang were well-known for their brutality. Several of their robberies ended with bloodshed."

Unwilling to let any disturbance on my part be revealed to LaBoeuf, I nodded simply, with no alteration of my character but a slight frown. A thousand horrid thoughts ran through my mind—the image of Mr. Croft standing over the body of a kindly banker, a smoking pistol in hand, while his partner, the sinister Freddy Cobb (who I imagined pallid, spindly, and hook-nosed) gathered bills from a safe. I paused to allow reality to settle, for rational conclusions to come to me about what the fate of Mr. Croft—or James D. Donohue—would mean for my family. Would we go back to being the poorest farmers in Yell County? I could not think about that now; I could not let Mr. LaBoeuf see me thinking about that.

"I suppose you will arrest him as soon as possible," I said.

"Not before he leads us to Cobb," said LaBoeuf, with a wary glance toward the door. "I had to relinquish the trail of him yesterday in favor of your step-father's. But neither man will evade me once I have them again in the same corner. If my suspicions are correct, Cobb will try to see Donohue again tomorrow morning, undoubtedly to ask for money. He committed a number of highway robberies single-handedly on his way to this city, all of which were unlucrative, so he must be desperate. He hit two mail coaches—no money there—and made off with whatever the footmen had in their pockets and what valuable parcels he could carry with him. And even when we have them together, there must be undeniable proof Croft is indeed Donohue."

"And what if they do not meet again? And what am I supposed to do until tomorrow? Sleep in a cell at the sheriff's place?"

"You have a perfectly sound bed in there, do you not?" he asked, gesturing at the hotel building.

"Do you expect me to sleep a room away from Mr. Croft, now that I know what he is capable of?"

LaBoeuf crossed his arms and smirked, and I realized I had let my guard, my falsely-inflated toughness, slip. I was aware of LaBoeuf's underrated opinion of female sensibility and had not wished to prove him right.

"I supposed you would be up for such a challenge," said he. "And I am certain if Croft posed no threat to you all the nights you have lived under his roof, then he poses no threat to you tonight. Or have you simply lost your—how did you once call it?—your _grit_?"

"Grit is not something one is capable of losing, Mr. LaBoeuf," said I. "I will endure the night here. But only to sustain Mr. Croft's ignorance of the situation, and only if you can guarantee he will be arrested before we board our train back to Little Rock. I will not watch a murderer be embraced and welcomed home by my family."

"I promise he will be in the custody of the law by then," said he with a bow of his head.

"I will hold you to that," said I.

LaBoeuf smirked once more. "I would like to know the worst you might do which entails _holding me to it_. I cannot say you are any more intimidating at this age than you were at fourteen. The size of your scowl has grown, but your frills abate the effect." He raised a hand to my collar and clinched at the lace trim like he'd never before seen the material. I swatted him away.

"Do I seem to you like a girl who enjoys this finery? If I had my choice I would dress as I always did. Mr. Croft is chiefly responsible for my attire. If I did not dress to suit his society, it would mean humiliation for us all."

"I never took you for one to mind the opinion of society, especially Mr. Croft's and those like him," said LaBoeuf.

"I am certain not all of our circle in Little Rock share his despicable past," said I. In fact, I could not imagine any of our lily-livered friends wielding a gun, let alone having the gall to fire it at someone. Then a day ago I thought the same of Mr. Croft. "And if you keep your word and Mr. Croft is apprehended, I don't think I will have to say _our_ circle much longer."

"Many girls would be glad to have a wealthy step-father, and wealthy friends."

"I have little interest in extravagant wealth, Mr. LaBoeuf. Especially wealth unlawfully acquired." I went to the porch, but turned to face him once more when I reached the bottom step. "Good night. I will see you tomorrow," said I, and left him with a dissatisfied scowl on his face, standing in the moonlit alley. The light was still on in the parlor, so I went swiftly up to my room.

I felt stupid having said all I did to him, after yearning all this time to do nothing but throw my arms around him; but in the moment there seemed like nothing else to say. My room was darker than it had been last night, the moon at this earlier hour facing another side of the house, and I did not bother to light a lamp. I did not bother to fuss with my buttons either, and climbed into bed with only my shoes removed, to hide my shame and frustration beneath the blankets. All my wishes and prayers, for what resulted in no more than a few hot words secretly exchanged in a dirt alley. I was too exhausted to think rationally about what LaBoeuf revealed to me; I pleased not to think of it, now or ever, rationally or otherwise.

I preferred to say the discovery of Mr. Croft's past surprised me; but in truth it did not. Subsequent to our removal to Little Rock and his attainment of my mother's hand. I witnessed a significant change of his character. His general mood, which I initially considered to be displeasing because of his obnoxiousness, declined to an abhorrent ill-humor. This change was evident even in his voice, which began as jovial and pitched, and became over time groveled and sharp. My sorrow was that I had not taken seriously my reservations about his trustworthiness; that I had not shouted every possible objection during their wedding ceremony; that I had not been forceful in advising my mother against the engagement when she still heeded the word of her daughter; that I had not fought the union with my every breath, from the first second of its announcement.

For the second night in a row tears fell from my cheek onto the pillow. I prayed morning would not come, that the sun would simply stay in place below the horizon, and all this town would sleep forever. I knew I could not look again at Mr. Croft's face without either an overwhelming swell of fear or anger, emotions which often drove me to irrational actions. I could only hope LaBoeuf would have the situation neatly tied up before I woke.


	3. I Am "Roughed Up"

The first sensation I was aware of when I woke was soreness in my back and shoulders, and a stinging pain in my scalp. My eyes opened gradually; soft linens and pillows came into focus before me, then the rosewood wardrobe and my parasol hung on its knob. I was lost in the early moment; my consciousness had not yet collected itself. I was disoriented by the strange furniture. This was not my home, current or past. When I glanced at the curtains and the warm light trickling through them, I remembered the hotel.

I sat up and discovered I had fallen asleep in my evening gown and corset, and my coiffure had fallen partly off my head. Pins stuck at painful angles into my scalp. I pulled them out, further dismantling the curls.

The wall clock read quarter-past ten, which was not far off from my usual lackadaisical schedule, but I wished it had been longer. I stood only to shed my gown and corset before lying back down. No motivation to leave the hotel, or my room, or even my bed possessed me. I would wait for word from Sheriff Randolph or Mr. LaBoeuf; or, Lord forbid, the knock of my step-father at the door. It was too soon now to send a telegram to Little Rock informing my mother I would return alone; the news would be better delivered in person.

No matter how deep I buried my head between the pillows I could not fall asleep again. I stood and decided, after some time staring at the wallpaper, to have a bath in the copper tub which sat in the corner of the room. It was, I presumed, chiefly an ornament to impress guests like myself, who had never before had the privilege to see a bathtub in a hotel.

At my request, steaming water was brought to my room from the kitchen by two chambermaids, carrying two pails each. Another brought in towels and soap. I found it strange the way the maids regarded me, or in fact, did not regard me. They entered with smiles and good-mornings and commenced to their work with smooth haste and impersonality. As they poured their pails into the tub, the steam rose into their faces and around their shoulders. Their white aprons reminded me of how my mother dressed during her days as a nursemaid. Had she continued on that path, had she never married Mr. Croft, I weighed that I would now be in a similar employment as the women who stood before me. If they considered me at all, I was sure neither of them would deem I had once been a poor farm-girl.

Once they were gone I undressed. Something fell from my pocket to the floor as I removed my skirt and as I picked it up, I discovered it was LaBoeuf's letter, forgotten in the turbulence of our argument the night before. I removed the rest of my clothes and placed the soap and towels within close reach of the tub.

I eased into the bath, after wincing once at the heat, and sunk low into it. LaBoeuf's letter sat atop my clothes-pile on the floor beside me. I was indeterminate now whether I should hand it over to him at all. I thought not for the first time of returning it to the post office, or opening it myself; instead I shut my eyes and sunk lower into the water.

I tried to recover my tranquility, but these worries would not be quelled. I did not know the particulars of LaBoeuf's plan to apprehend Croft this morning and at what hour he intended to carry it out. There was but one of two outcomes: either he got him or he didn't. What followed either result was shrouded in doubt.

           

As I gathered my purse and parasol to leave an hour or so later, the locked door which separated my and Mr. Croft's room caught my attention. I was informed last night over dinner that my step-father would be attending to one or two remaining obligations today before we boarded our train. His room would be empty, his belongings unattended. Curiosity took hold of me.

I retrieved a long hairpin from the dressing-table and picked the lock with surprising ease, having done it once before in the same technique, when Papa had locked a key inside his bureau. I made sure both the door to my room and the one to Croft's were latched, and kept the door between them opened.

Mr. Croft kept his room as tidy as a dog-house. Items of clothing were everywhere about the place, strewn across the floor and unmade bed, piled on the back of a chair and over the open doors of the armoire; I had to adapt my footing to avoid tripping on stray books, shoes, and a trunk, which for some obscure reason sat open and empty in the middle of the room.

I could not fathom where to begin in this mess, nor did I know exactly what I was after. Most interesting to me were his daybook and ledger, which along with his briefcase I figured would be with him at his business meeting. A carpet bag sat on the bed, but a glance inside saw nothing but more clothing, which I was unwilling to rifle through. Inspections of the armoire and under the bed-skirt yielded nothing but the same.

I went to the writing table at the other side of the bed, beside the window, the single tidy surface in the room. Front and center sat a partial draft in Croft's hand, to the owner of some cotton plantation, of ordinary content. Spread across the table were others of the same nature; in its drawer I found his personal letters. I read quickly through them all, some being from my mother, until I came to one written in an unfamiliar hand, addressed to "Donohue". I hastily flipped the page to see the name of its sender— _Yours sincerely, Frederick Cobb_. LaBoeuf's man!

If any doubt remained within me that Mr. Croft and James D. Donohue were one and the same, it was then vanquished. This letter was enough to surely convict him in any court. An envelope in the drawer, under where I picked up the note, was scrawled with the same writing; this time naming its recipient as John Croft, at our address in Little Rock! I wondered if this was what truly called my step-father to Dallas. I held the letter tightly in my hands and read it urgently, murmuring the words to myself as I did.

It went as thus: “ _Dear Donohue_ _—you have likely guessed as of now, simply by receiving this letter, that I am desperately in trouble. I have bided in Mexico and California since we last saw one another but am now in Dallas. I am in need of your help and would like to meet. If you are unable to travel to Texas I will find my way to Arkansas._ ”

Cobb went on to further beg for assistance, alluding to financial hardship and debt, and asked Croft to come down to Dallas within the fortnight. That explained why he arranged this trip so swiftly! I forewent reading the remainder of the letter; I folded and placed it, within its envelope, in the pocket of my jacket.

Also among the disorganized papers was a suspicious telegram—a little yellow card that would not have caught my attention had I not shuffled through the drawer one last time. “ _C. is here in Dallas. Come immediately_ ,” was all it read—addressed to _Donohue_ from _Sullivan_. I pocketed it as well.

A voice and steps in the hall startled me; I listened carefully as they approached and breathed easily again when the noises waned. The excitement of poking my nose around grew weary and without another hesitation, I left the way I came.

 

For the third day in succession I made my way to the sheriff's office, both pieces of Croft's correspondence tucked away in my pocket. The paper felt as heavy as gold on my waist; I eyed each person that passed me like any one of them could divine what I was up to.

Though the clouds above were spotted and the sun shone strongly, the day was colder and windier than any since my arrival and I shivered in the shade. I had never imagined any place in Texas could achieve weather this cold. I wrapped my shawl tighter around myself as I walked.

As I approached the sheriff's building I observed two men and a spotted horse, which looked like LaBoeuf's, on the road ahead. At a distance I could not identify either man, but I hoped neither was the ranger himself. I did not wish for him to see that I walked all the way here simply to show him my findings, which now felt minuscule. I lowered my head as I got closer.

The taller of the two men was indeed LaBoeuf, speaking intently to the other, who I believed was one of the men I had seen gambling inside the sheriff's two days before. I pretended to take no notice as I passed them and went to the steps, hoping for myself to be noticed first.

I doubted I was seen for only an instant when I reached the porch, before LaBoeuf barked my name.

"Mattie!"

I turned around as if I hadn't expected to see him. "Mr. LaBoeuf," I said calmly, descending the steps again to meet him. "Good afternoon. I have something to show you and Sheriff Randolph."

"Good afternoon," he said. "I told you to stay out of the business of the law."

"You did, and I chose to do otherwise. I have something for you that I believe will help your investigation."

"Sheriff Randolph and I are more than capable of apprehending a criminal without your assistance."

Presuming his obstinacy was for the benefit of the sheriff's man who stood listening at a yard away, I ignored him and took from my pocket the letters I collected from Croft's writing table. "I found these among my step-father's things."

He read the telegram quickly, and spent a fair bit of time studying the letter. The other man stepped closer and gazed over his arm at the documents, though I could tell by his perturbed look that he could not read a word there. I often saw the same look on my mother's face when she insisted on interpreting her correspondence on her own.

"I do not see how either of these will be of any help," said LaBoeuf abruptly, to my amazement. He handed the papers back to me.

"Did you not read them?" said I. "This links Croft directly to being James D. Donohue and associates him with Cobb and whatever mischief he is up to in this city." I shoved the papers toward his chest but he did not take them.

"I see one note from Cobb to Donohue. That relationship is factually established and requires no evidence. The other note makes no mention of either Cobb or Donohue and is from a friend of Croft's I have never heard of. Neither proves Croft is Donohue's facade. And anyway, what we need now is not evidence."

I stood two steps above him, granting me a significant advantage of height, which seemed to annoy LaBoeuf, but not enough to inspire him to pull me down from the steps. "Have you made advancements?" I asked.

LaBoeuf peered at the man who had not yet moved from his right, who was, apparent from the smirk on his face, entertained by our exchange; seeing LaBoeuf's humorless look, his smirk disappeared and he elected to give us our privacy by proceeding into the office.

Before the man was out of earshot, LaBoeuf began, "I have stated clearly, Miss Ross, you are not to stick your stubborn nose into this criminal investigation. I understand your personal concern in the affair and that is why I admitted the truth about your step-father to you. But this is a professional operation and I cannot have you fussing about and distracting Sheriff Randolph and I. I said I will inform you when our business is concluded."

"What have I ever done to distract you?"

The door to the sheriff's office opened behind me with a creak. We both turned to see Sheriff Randolph himself step out, one big black boot in front of the other, looking a little cleaned-up. It was a fair guess whether he was alerted to the commotion on his doorstep by the man that had just gone inside or by the alarm of LaBoeuf's voice. He smiled at me and a wad of tobacco stuck out between his teeth. He did not come down the stairs to meet us, but instead leaned over the porch railing and tipped his hat.

"Miss Ross," he said, chewing as he spoke. "Should I anticipate you becoming a regular around here?"

"I pray not," I replied strongly. Holding out Mr. Croft's letters, I ascended the stairs once more and showed them to him over the railing. "Sheriff Randolph, I have two documents from my step-father's hotel room which will be indispensable evidence in the trial against him. Mr. LaBoeuf does not deem them relevant, but perhaps you have greater sense."

He took _Sullivan'_ s telegram, but before he had time to read a word of it LaBoeuf interrupted: "I have already taken a look at them. They are nothing to us." I glanced at him indignantly; he returned my look.

"I trust Mr. LaBoeuf's judgment," said the sheriff, with a slow sigh, as he handed the note back to me. He added, "Lord knows we have enough useless paper lying around the courthouse."

"Fine," I said bitterly, and replaced the notes into my pocket. "I will keep them and a month from now when you need them for the trial, you will have to pay me whatever outrageous price I ask for them."

"A month?" repeated the sheriff.

"What? Will it not be that long?" I asked. I remembered LaBoeuf's promise about having Croft arrested before morning and continued eagerly, "Have you already got him?"

The sheriff chortled. "Honey, LaBoeuf will be lucky if he hears a single word of his fugitive in a month, let alone sees him convicted and hanged."

"Why is that?" I asked, and turned back to LaBoeuf.

He tilted his head down so that all I could see below the brim of his hat was his mustache and a sore frown. I feared the notions which formed in my own head.

"Well, one of us will have to catch him before he is put to trial," said Randolph. "And if Donohue is as smart as he seems, he is already a week ahead of his pursuers."

I had not wanted to come to the conclusion myself, but now it was evident that LaBoeuf's plan this morning, which he had such confidence in the night before, had failed, and that Donohue and Cobb were gone.

I turned to LaBoeuf. "Why are you not after him this very moment? Do you expect to gain on him idling here and fraternizing with the sheriff's men? At the very least you could station yourself at the hotel to keep watch if he drops by," I turned back to the sheriff, "and you could be in town, searching the other places we know he has visited."

"I do not need to explain my methods to you," said LaBoeuf.

"I believe you do," said I, "because I fail to see that your actions have any method at all."

Randolph cackled, still leaning casually on the porch railing, as if he were in a friendly chat with a neighbor. "A man would think by her garments she is a lady, but he would be fooled," he said, and pulled out a half-chewed plug from his breast pocket. I began to wonder if he was at all concerned with apprehending Donohue or Cobb, or any other criminal in this town.

Now that LaBoeuf's pride was wounded in the presence of another man, one who arguably outranked him, at least in this jurisdiction, his obvious embarrassment at the reveal of his failure turned to anger.

"I have shown you before I am not afraid to lay hands on a little girl," said he.

"If only I were one," I replied. "Accordingly, I am no lady at all."

LaBoeuf grabbed my arm and waist. I thought he would throw me to the ground like he had when I was younger, but instead he brought me to land on my feet beside him, unharmed. His hand still gripping my jacket, he pulled me toward the road and outstretched his other hand to hail a cab.

"You will go back to your hotel and wait for my word," said he.

Sheriff Randolph, yet stationed on the porch and spitting his tobacco-juice into the dirt, hooted at our scuffle.

"You should be out pursuing Donohue. Instead you waste your time tyrannizing me," said I.

An empty chaise caught sight of LaBoeuf's outstretched arm and hastened toward us. I wished to stay, to oversee their search for Croft, but I could not think of any worthwhile way in which I could be useful; and I knew well that LaBoeuf would withstand any demand I asserted to stay. When the chaise halted before us, LaBoeuf, his hands again on my waist, tried to lift me into it. I kicked at him until he put me down.

"I am capable of getting into a carriage myself," said I, and pushed past him to step up to the seat.

LaBoeuf came close to the chaise to say something, one hand placed on the side of the cab, but I addressed him first: "If you really have scared off Mr. Croft and he has fled from this city, then I am stranded here."

LaBoeuf grinned and laughed brazenly; I drew back. "Lord, you are not the same girl I witnessed chase after her father's murderer. I never thought you incapable of sitting on a train home unattended, even before you proved your grit to me." He said to the driver, "Take her to the Centennial Inn on Elm Street, and make sure she does not jump out half-way there."

He paid the man and I did not give him another look as we drove away. What LaBoeuf last said put me in the sourest of moods, though I knew his sentiment was not without its validity; I was not helpless in this city, but I had naturally assumed myself so, so habituated was I to having a constant escort. My grit was repressed by years of a pampered life; it required simply to be reanimated.

After two blocks I asked the driver to stop, which he had no objection to, having already been paid. I was let off at the corner of a busy street; I considered turning about and confronting LaBoeuf again, but this would end the same as our just concluded encounter. I could have gone in search of Croft myself, but my knowledge of the city was poor and I had no notion of where he might be, if he had not already fled town.

Pressured by the moving crowd to step aside or move in step with the others, I started down the street away from the courthouse and the sheriff's office, and decided the only place to go was to the hotel.

With each stride I meditated who I had become, and was in that quarter-hour more perceptive of myself than I had been in years. I contemplated each step which brought me to this precise instant, and could think of not one decision which was not formed from self-indulgence, foolishness, or desire. I journeyed here to Texas solely on the hope, and the prayer, that LaBoeuf would appear before me, and once here, let my simple desire to be in his presence overrule my better judgment. Though I knew full-well all that I had done, I could scarcely believe I had done it, and felt a swell of embarrassment. Had I really been so desperate for occupation in my idle, rich life? I had lost patience and all knowledge of composure; I knew nothing now but whimsy and self-indulgence and foolishness. I looked down at the letters in my hand and scourged myself for bringing them to LaBoeuf in the first place.

The glares of my fellow pedestrians pushed me forward, women and men and children hurrying around me to get where they must, asking themselves why this overdressed slow walker was dragging her satin dress through the mud in mid-day. I tried to pay them no mind, pondering instead writing a letter to Mama, and how sweet my return home would be. It was best now I returned home, where I could be foolish in solitude.

When I stepped up to the gleaming white porch of the Centennial, my dress was in poor condition and sweat had collected under my bonnet. I removed it as I entered and wiped the crud from my boots on the doormat, waving off the inquiries of the porter that came to my aid.

When I arrived at the door of my room, I had resolved to pack up and go forthwith to the station to await a train home. I pulled the room key from my purse and just as I turned the knob, I heard the knocking about of someone inside. The door swung open into my room.

My large satchel lay open on the bed and several dresses were thrown inside of it, hats and bonnets and slippers elsewhere around it. Standing at the open wardrobe, emptying it, was Mr. Croft, dressed down to his shirtsleeves. He turned to me at the sound of the door, his eyes wild, moustache white as snow against his crimson face.

"There you are, Mattie!" he shouted, and dropped my dress that he held. "You must finish packing at once. We are leaving without delay."

This was my first time looking upon him with the knowledge he was not who he had pretended to be all these years. Had I expected to see him here, I would have had a chance to gather my wits beforehand; but now I could do nothing but stand fixed in the doorway, my hand still placed on the knob, at a loss for words.

"Without delay!" Croft repeated, and he moved as quickly as I had ever seen him toward the door which connected our rooms. When I remained still he prepared to yell, frustration now mixed with the frenzy which twisted his expression. His eyes fell to the papers in my hand, the letters I had swiped from his desk earlier this morning.

"What do you have there?" he asked. He leaned forward to snatch them from my hand and I shuffled them behind my back. "What is that!" he shouted; rage churned in his eyes, rage I had but glimpsed before.

He grabbed the shoulder of my bad arm with his meaty hand and tried to turn me about. I struggled against him with my full weight, beating his chest and throat with my fist that held the letters I wished to keep from him. With one hand he grabbed my wrist, and with the other pulled at what bits of the papers were not wrapped up in my fist. I screamed out with the hope someone would come to my aid, but even if anyone had heard, they could not arrive in time.

Croft tore the papers from my fist and released me, sending me backward across the room. A post of the bed collided painfully into my back and I yelled out in pain, but Croft was little troubled with my well-being. The papers were torn in half; one part clenched in my closed fist, and the rest in the hand of my step-father. I leaned against the bed, wincing at the sharp pain in my spine and watched helplessly as Croft read his share of the papers. Though he had just a piece of them, it was more than enough for him to identify the letters as his own.

"It is no use running back to Little Rock now," said I, doing my best to appear invulnerable despite my injury. To enrage him further was foolishness, but where my physical attack failed, I aimed to wound him with wit. "The ranger you met last night; Mr. LaBoeuf. He knew your identity before you ever introduced yourself. He will follow you to Arkansas. He will follow you anywhere you decide to run—Donohue."

Hearing that name sparked something else in his wild eyes—surprise or, I hoped, fear.

"Twit," he spat, throwing the torn letters to the floor. He took one step toward me and held out his large hand. I thought he meant to seize my neck with it, but he held his footing. He shouted, "What do you think will happen to our family if I am caught? You are wounding yourself! You damn wench!"

He lunged at me and I dodged toward the dressing-table, grabbing the stool which sat below and bracing it in front of myself like a shield. My blood pumped faster than it had in years, with fear of my own mortality; my thoughts stumbled over themselves; I scrambled only to protect myself from the madman that stood before me, thirsting for my blood.

"I do not care a thing about your house or your money," said I. "My family survived before you came along and we will continue to do so after you are hanged for your crimes." I held the stool with both hands, prepared to thrust it into Croft's chest, or crack it across his skull.

He broke into a laugh; a low, sinister laugh unlike his usual guffaw. "You cannot imagine the worst of my crimes. If you knew, you would not be as bold as you are now."

I replied, "Is there any crime worse than your negligence of hygiene, and your disregard of common courtesy? Because those I have witnessed more times than I can recall."

He charged at me again with a furious roar and I thrust the stool into his chest, driving him back into the bed post as he had done to me a moment before. He cried out; I let go of the stool and ran for the open door, but the drag of my skirt gave Croft the advantage of speed—he stomped on the trail of my dress and I fell forward. My head struck the doorframe and I landed with a thud that shook the room.

I writhed at the throbbing of my head. I could not move to rise or defend myself, even as Croft plodded over to me.

"Mattie, I have been a generous man to you and your family," he said, huffing deeply between each word. He stood over me, his fat hands hanging at his sides like sledgehammers. "You treated me with the same impertinence even before you discovered my past. Am I more or less worthy of your ridicule now?"

I tried to rise by bearing myself against the door, but Croft kicked my side and the pain sent me once more to the ground. Though I trembled with fear and recognized my disadvantage, I tried to appear composed. "Where do you think you will run? And to what, or whom?" I said.

His ugly face swelled with anger. I turned away as one of his meaty fists swung down at me. I remembered only the pain, and crying out, and a glimpse of Croft's brogues on the smooth wooden floor of the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness of this chapter! This and the next were originally one chapter but I thought it would be better to separate them.


	4. I Am "Roughed Up" (Resolution)

I came to on an unfamiliar and rigid bed, pain in my back and a worser ache around the side of my head. I could not bring myself to rise or do more than groan and twist my neck. Only as I gained further consciousness did I realize that I was no longer in my room at the Centennial.

At one side of my bed was a wall, and on the other, nothing. Whatever room I was in was dimly lit—as I gathered awareness and my eyes opened, I saw the door of this room was opened and the only light was spilling in from somewhere down the hall. Indistinguishable murmurs drifted in from the same source. I sat up with another groan, and my head flushed with heat and tenderness. For a moment my vision blackened and starbursts appeared before my eyes. Weakness was throughout my body, as if I had come down with an illness, but I was determined to rise and discover my surroundings.

One of the voices from the hall made an indistinguishable exclamation; I recognized its accents immediately as LaBoeuf's. I must have been at the sheriff's office. This assurance that I was not in the territory of strangers or enemies provided great relief. As the swelling in my head tamed, I noticed the room was larger than I first assessed. Fine cabinetry and a large desk and leather armchair made up the other side of the room, outlined by bleak, bluish twilight let in from the window. At this sight I determined I had mistook this as the sheriff's place; the floors and walls and furnishings were altogether different, and the character of the space more ornate.

I rose from the bed; this time with caution not to agitate my head wound once more, and steadied myself. I went carefully toward the door and the voices that came from it. The room let out onto a darkened balcony, at the opposite end of which I could faintly make out a closed door; at either side were twin, carpeted stairs which led down into a wide hall. I knew at once I was in the court-house, for I knew of no other building in the town which could be so large and finely constructed.

Nearer the front of the hall was an open pair of doors from which shone warm and golden lamplight, and only by its reflections was I able to discern the structures around me. A man stood leaned against the outside of the doorframe facing inward, holding a cigarette between his fingers. At first I supposed he was the owner of one of the voices I had distinguished, but I saw as I descended the stair that he was no one I knew.

LaBoeuf spoke as I moved down the stairs, my hand tightly gripping its railing; I could make out his words: "...should value expedition over thoroughness. If they have not stopped to gather themselves, they might as well be as far as Mexico."

"Which makes our going after them all the more futile, even if we are sure which road they took," replied the voice of Sheriff Randolph.

"We do not have to men to explore every route, thoroughly or expeditiously," said a third voice, younger and more polished than either of the others; this was the deputy I met the other day.

LaBoeuf replied, "Then we must choose the most likely path and enlist trustworthy men to our aid."

The man standing in the doorway straightened his posture as he caught sight of me, but said nothing, even as I arrived at the door beside him. The room, expectedly, was a courtroom; not the grandest I had seen nor the smallest.

There were more men inside than just the three that spoke; a meeting was going on. The sheriff sat in a chair at the counselor's table, struggling with a match to light his pipe, his face illuminated by a short lamp before him. LaBoeuf stood, also with a pipe, at the front of the table, staring at the floor in bland contemplation. In fact, the only man in the room without a pipe or cigarette was the deputy. Two men stood behind the sheriff, doing nothing more than smoking and watching. They spotted me as I came to the door, but just as the other did, they made no acknowledgment of my presence.

"It is most likely they have gone east or south," said the deputy. "If they are looking to reclaim their old occupation, those are the best roads for wagon robbing." He pointed at something on the table and I noticed a map spread out there, but I was not close enough to see its contents.

"Donohue is well-off for now," said LaBoeuf. "He withdrew a hefty sum from the bank this afternoon and had plenty of time to equip himself before he fled. I am sure he is foremost interested in evading our chase." He leaned over the table to better study the map and clamped down on his pipe. After a moment he pointed to another place on the chart and said, "What about here? If I wished to take the most discreet route, forests and mountains would appeal to me."

"That is an old cattle trail," croaked the sheriff. "I do not know a man that has gone that trail in thirty years."

"Which makes it all the more ideal," replied LaBoeuf. "We should go in parties of two and three." He put down his pipe and laid both his hands on the table. "Sheriff Randolph and I will lead a party of three onto this cattle trail. Deputy Yeats will lead his party north. Two men will suffice for that trail, unless you expect more should be taken."

"Two will suffice," said the deputy.

"Good." LaBoeuf nodded at him. "Then we will have three men for the Houston trail, three for Austin, and two going east."

Sheriff Randolph stood suddenly, scraping his chair against the floor. "I do not have that many men to spare!" he bellowed, and looped his thumbs under his suspenders. He had been silently fuming until now, as he watched LaBoeuf spew assignments at his men as if they were his own.

I always imagined LaBoeuf as a lone ranger, his practice a solitary one, travelling isolated roads, bonded only to his horse and the open starry sky; but here he commanded the others easily. They appeared to respect his position, certainly more than Marshal Cogburn had, the only other man I had witnessed him work alongside.

"There are trustworthy men I can call on that are always more than ready to assist the law," said Deputy Yeats.

"And my brother-in-law is visiting this month," said one of the men in the corner. "He is handy with a rifle, and a good horseman to boot."

None of the men were as distressed by their numbers as Sheriff Randolph; I wondered if they saw through this distress, as I did, as a guise for his favor of inaction. Perhaps travelling any distance outside of Dallas was too much for the sheriff.

He huffed and ran his thumbs up and down under his suspenders. "At any rate, it would be foolish to go onto that old trail into the Palo Pintos tonight. It is dangerous to travel at full daylight, and fatal after nightfall. There is a reason no one follows it any longer."

"That is true," agreed Deputy Yeats. "I have known trappers that have gone that way looking for game and gotten lost in the night. The pines block out the moonlight like wool curtains."

LaBoeuf nodded. "Then we will leave at daybreak tomorrow."

"It is well we should put off every trail until then. If there is anyone on the way who has seen them, none of them will be awake to answer our questions," said Randolph.

Though a glint in LaBoeuf's eye suggested his eagerness to overtake Donohue and Cobb at any cost, he could not deny the sheriff's logic. Before he could reply, Randolph cleared his throat and reiterated, "That is it, then. We will go off in the morning. We will meet here at the court-house."

They settled on a time—seven o'clock—with several of the men promising to bring along reinforcements. This looked to be a greater manhunt than I ever had the hope of producing for Chaney; perhaps I underestimated Sheriff Randolph's dedication.

The two men smoking in the corner withdrew first. I stepped aside to let them pass into the hall, and both eyed me as they went, one as he lit a new cigarette; but neither said a word. The man standing beside me outside the room followed them, but not before blowing tobacco-smoke toward me and smirking. These were some of the same men I had seen playing cards in the sheriff's office the other afternoon; they gave me now a sensation altogether more intimidating than the lazy gamblers they first presented themselves as.

More of the sheriff's troops dispersed from the meeting and I stepped into the court-room just before they filed out. LaBoeuf spoke to the sheriff softly as he rolled up the map spread across the table. Neither had noticed my entrance. Only when the deputy turned to extinguish a lamp on the wall behind him did any of them espy me. He tapped LaBoeuf on the shoulder and whispered something to him.

LaBoeuf straightened from leaning over the table and looked over at me. I did not move from my place against the wall. "If only so many men had been as eager to catch my father's killer, I may not have lost my arm," I said to him.

"How long were you eavesdropping there?" LaBoeuf asked as he came over to me. Randolph and Deputy Yeats glanced at us, but looked away as LaBoeuf ushered me out into the hall.

"I was not eavesdropping. The door was open. And it is not as if you or the sheriff had your voices lowered."

LaBoeuf scowled; his hand remained on my shoulder, and I did not shake him off as I had during our argument the night before, when he grabbed me in a similar fashion. "The doctor instructed me to send for him as soon as you woke," said he. "He suspected you took a blow to the head."

"He suspected right," said I. The side of my head throbbed as I recalled the strike of Croft's fist.

"I will send for the doctor," said LaBoeuf.

"No." I stopped him before he turned back to the court-room. "I do not need a doctor," said I, regardless of my persistent headache. There were more pressing issues at hand. "I overheard your discussion about leaving town. I take it then you could not fulfill you word that Donohue and Cobb would be arrested by this afternoon?"

"We believe Donohue was forewarned by Cobb or another unknown friend in town, and left the city on horseback. Two colts were stolen this afternoon from a stall not far from your hotel. We had Randolph's men waiting for him at the train station and he did not show there," said he bitterly. I suspected through the tone of his voice that the fault of the criminals' escape, at least in his own mind, was not LaBoeuf's, but the incompetent Sheriff Randolph's.

Before I could utter my next thought, LaBoeuf anticipated my intention.

"You will not join us tomorrow," said he.

"Why not?" said I with indignation. "You once admitted I am handy on the trail, and who here is more familiar with Croft than I?"

LaBoeuf glanced behind himself at the open doors of the court-room, which we stood not a few paces from. Sheriff Randolph and Deputy Yeats still talked to one another inside, but they took no notice of us. LaBoeuf led me to a darker part of the hall, nearer the staircase I had descended from.

"Circumstances now are different than they were with Chelmsford. We numbered three against half a dozen then, and I respected your drive for justice, but even then I was averse to bring a girl along on a manhunt." He let his hand go from my arm and his voice relinquished its softness. "This is Sheriff Randolph's jurisdiction and there are more men at his disposal than I could ask for. Even if I were eager to have you along, I can be certain he would not allow it."

No matter his decree, LaBoeuf knew already from experience that I could not be stopped from doing as I pleased. I saw no point in contending with him when I knew without doubt (and I suspected he did as well) that I would some way end up alongside him at the moment Croft was apprehended.

After LaBoeuf went up to the office I had woken up in to retrieve his coat, which I had unknowingly been using as a pillow, the sheriff tipped his hat to me on his way out of the court-house, and I bore an idea. I coolly asked Yeats, who remained to lock up after us, if I could have a look at the maps he and the other men were earlier poring over. The trail into the Palo Pinto Mountains began a few miles north of town; I traced the way to it with my finger, and mentally marked the image in my mind.

 

As I did not have money for another night at the Centennial Inn and my train home to Little Rock had long since departed, LaBoeuf inquired where I would sleep tonight. He suggested I entreat the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Tilden, who were helpful and shocked at the news about Mr. Croft when he called on them earlier in the day. Their home seemed like an agreeable place to spend the night, after all that had happened.

We went first to the Centennial to gather my things. Though the evening was pleasant the streets were damp from recent rainfall, which I was informed had come and gone while I slept in the judge's chambers. Gray clouds still covered the darkening twilight sky. I had not enough money for even a cab, and LaBoeuf offered me his horse instead. I rode side-saddle, the only riding position my bustle would allow me, while Mr. LaBoeuf walked with the reins, and told me all that transpired after I lost consciousness.

"A porter from the hotel came to the sheriff's just after we set out. We were waiting for Cobb and Donohue in the alley of Mr. Hanna's store, where I had before seen them meeting. Cobb showed after one o'clock and waited around. A while passed before we figured Donohue would not show, so we went ahead to try and grab him. There were two men at each end of the alley, but when Cobb saw us coming he went through the gate of Hanna's store. We had another man out front in case he tried something like that, but Cobb evaded him and got away on horseback, and the street was too busy to give an effective chase. We were scouring that side of town when the boy from the hotel flagged down the sheriff and told us a girl had been found senseless on the floor of her room and her belongings were turned upside-down. I figured at once the girl was you and Donohue was responsible. That is what happened, is it not?" he asked, once realizing he had not heard my version of the events.

"Yes," I answered. "He intended to take me back to Little Rock so I told him I had been informed of his true identity. We came to blows. I protected myself with a dressing-table stool, but that could not stop the beast, and he struck me on the head."

I waited for LaBoeuf to scold me for confronting a dangerous man like Croft, threatening though I was with one arm and a small frame, but his disposition was not altogether condemning.

"Had your injury been a degree more severe, the doctor said you might have been bedridden," said he; if it had not been for the passing light of a street lamp, his glower would have escaped me. "I had you removed to the court-house instead, where you could be watched."

"The sheriff's men watched me while I slept?" I asked with some discomfort.

"They are upright men. I would not leave you defenseless in their presence if they were not." All amusement was gone from his tone but this did not reassure me.

I replied, "I do not know what an upright man looks like in Texas, but if I saw those same men on the street in Arkansas, I would steer myself out of the way. Only that young deputy has treated me graciously thus far, and I may only have that impression of him because of his boyishness. Even the sheriff walks and talks like a miscreant."

Though he did not say so directly, LaBoeuf did not appear to entirely disagree. "This is not the first time I have worked with Randolph," said he. "He is rough around the edges and sometimes difficult to work with, but he keeps a watchful eye on Dallas, and it is advantageous to maintain our good relation."

We walked in silence until we reached the hotel. This was Sunday evening, I realized only after some time. I had lost track of the days since being away from home. It was nearly dark now and the only people who passed us on the street were looking eager to get home.

The clerk at the Centennial remembered LaBoeuf and I and readily gave us a key to Mr. Croft's room. LaBoeuf and the sheriff had already come through and seized Croft's belongings; I looked in on the room out of curiosity. Everything was tidied up and the bed set with new linens. Neither of us stepped in before we locked the door once more.

My room was unchanged since my scuffle with Croft: the stool lay on its side on the floor; my satchel thrown open on the bed; the wardrobe beyond it was raided as well, its contents spilled in a pile. I recalled each movement of our struggle with renewed hatred of my step-father. I paused only briefly to think of wringing his neck before commencing to pack my things.

"I will not be long. You may wait downstairs if you please," I said to LaBoeuf, who remained in the doorway and gazed about the room. It was a little inappropriate for him to remain here while I folded my laundry.

He must not have considered the same impropriety, because he came farther into the room to the window and said, "That is all right. I would like to keep an eye on you until I am certain you are safe in someone else's company." He pulled back the curtains and looked outside, and I did not further press the matter.

I took the opportunity of his back being turned to transfer my hosiery and undergarments into the satchel. My only other belongings apart from clothing were books; my Bible, a little collection of Byron, and the copy of Macbeth given to me by Mrs. Tilden. As I lifted my Bible from its place in the nightstand, I recalled LaBoeuf's letter that remained inside its pages. Now was not the time; I put all three into the bag.

Before we left I put the turned-over stool back into its place by the dressing-table, and as I did I espied the corner of a paper under the bed. It was the telegram and letter I had taken from Croft's desk that morning, which he then took back.

"So much for your appraisal of these," I said with a sigh as I picked them up.

LaBoeuf stood at the door with my satchels in hand, ready to go out. "Pardon?"

"These letters." I showed them to him as we exited. "Croft did not think they were nothing. In fact, he wrestled me to get at them. That is what began our quarrel."

"I still think they are of redundant value," said LaBoeuf.

I locked the door behind us. We resumed our conversation once we were downstairs and I turned over the keys to the clerk. I leaned onto the counter and looked over the torn notes: the lengthy letter from Cobb, asking _Donohue_ to come to Dallas, the envelope which contained it, addressed to _Croft_ ; and the short telegram which still perplexed me, from "Sullivan", again informing Donohue, in less ink, of Cobb's presence in Dallas.

"Did you not say someone informed Donohue that you and Sheriff Randolph were after him? Perhaps that is who this Sullivan is," said I, staring at the telegram.

LaBoeuf did not reply or gesture so I looked up at him. He stared intently at the paper in my hand. "Sullivan," said he.

"Do you know that name?"

He put down the bags and took the telegram from me, his eyes running frantically over it.

"Who is Sullivan?" I asked.

He placed the note away in the pocket of his coat and looked around the hotel lobby suspiciously, as if Croft were still here, watching us. "I will tell you outside," said he.

As LaBoeuf undid his horse's reins from the railing, he told me more of Donohue and Cobb's past. "Their gang was led by a man named Pitt Sullivan. I am ashamed I did not think of the connection when you first showed me the telegram," said he. "Neither Donohue or Cobb were exactly Sullivan's right hand. I am struck they would keep step nowadays. Sullivan has been thought dead far longer than either Donohue or Cobb. Here we have another reprobate raised from the grave. I would say perhaps their disappearances years ago are not coincidental."

"If retiring a criminal career and settling into a more comfortable life is so easy, why have I not heard of more outlaws assuming fresh identities?" I asked.

"Pitt Sullivan is unlike any criminal I know of. Cobb is a common Missourian, Donohue is clever but predictable, but Sullivan is unique among his kind."

Instead of one of us riding we secured one satchel into the saddle and carried the other and walked on either side of the horse. Night had fallen plainly on Dallas and candlelight appeared in the windows above the darkened shops which lined the street. We had not yet sent word to the Tildens that I hoped to intrude on their evening, but I fancied Mrs. Tilden liked me a great deal and would not turn me away in a time of need. Any nervousness I may have once felt about the rudeness of such an assumption was washed away by the overwhelming circumstances regarding Mr. Croft. Decorum occurred to me but did not factor into my thinking.

"What do you know of Pitt Sullivan?" I asked LaBoeuf. He spoke as if he had encountered the man more than once, but the ranger had a talent for embellishing his tales.

"Only what I have heard through newspapers and the stories of my colleagues," said he, looking right ahead as he spoke. "Neither of which can always be trusted." He tugged the horse's reins and we turned from the main brick street to a dirt road. Ahead was a cluster of lights among short trees, which I determined was the series of homes that included the Tildens'.

"One of the first cases I was involved in, he was responsible for. I was an officer in Houston then. Three men posed as guests of a wedding of two rich families there. They followed the congregation from the chapel to the bride's home, where dinner and desserts were served, and waited for the gifts to be laid out. They drew their guns and let off a few shots just as the merriment began, stole what they could carry, and left in the bridal coach. The groom was shot in the back and lost the use of his legs. I never saw Sullivan, but he was notorious in Houston after that."

"Was Donohue with him then?" I asked.

"I cannot say."

We were silent as I held my head low.

"Will this alter tomorrow's arrangements?" I asked. "It is just as well that Sullivan is with them, or that he is here in Dallas, or somewhere else altogether. If he is as clever as you say he would have left Texas as soon as his cohorts arrived."

"The telegram will raise interest in our hunt, if nothing else, when I present it to Sheriff Randolph," said LaBoeuf, patting his breast pocket where the papers were hid. "As for our having—"

He paused and I looked at him. His face reverted to its familiar scowl, and he said stiffly, "Our arrangements are no concern of yours, since you have no part in the chase."

I said nothing. We came upon the Tilden's mansion, all of its windows illuminated with warm, inviting lamplight.

The servant at the door remembered me from dinner the night before, and remembered LaBoeuf as well, though he seemed confused at our showing up together at this hour. Mrs. Tilden could not have been more enthusiastic and welcoming; her husband was considerably less thrilled, but polite, and offered Mr. LaBoeuf something to drink while Mrs. Tilden ushered me up the stairs to put away my things.

The second floor was lovelier than the first, carved all of mahogany and bright patterned carpets. We went inside a lovely bedroom around the corner from the staircase, which was now my own. The walls were papered in a fine velvet texture, and the room complete with a decorated marble fireplace and furnishings which met the rest of the house in grandeur. I placed my luggage on the bed, a canopied masterpiece, and was prepared to follow Mrs. Tilden back down to the sitting-room until she instructed me to stay and unpack my things.

I appreciated her accommodation, which I conveyed before she departed, but did not convey to her that my stay would be a shorter one than I had indicated. That interest I had resolved to see the conclusion of would take me shortly away from this house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. Sin and Law

Once I stored away my last piece of clothing in the rosewood dresser and put my books in the nightstand I returned to the parlor, where Mr. Tilden was reading a novel aloud while his wife sewed. I was disappointed to discover LaBoeuf had since departed; I had hurried my unpacking to see him off.

Over the course of supper, which was nearly as formal as my first visit, our conversation centered on Mr. Croft. Mr. Tilden held his tongue on the matter, perhaps because he thought the discussion would upset me, but Mrs. Tilden did not mince her considerations in the slightest.

"I was thoroughly stunned and might I say outraged," said she, as she cut her food with animation. "It would be one thing to read about this affair in a newspaper or hear it through gossip, and I think then it would be exciting—but to be deceived by a friend! Mr. Tilden and I have known him some years now and never once suspected a thing like this. That is what you get for trusting someone you met in Saint Louis. Never trust any person you meet in Saint Louis, Miss Ross, or any other big city like it, unless there is a friend who will contend to his or her trustworthiness."

All Mr. Tilden had to say on the subject was, "I always attributed his brashness to his Northern upbringing."

That night I thought of Mr. Croft's children and first wife we had heard only stories of, if they truly existed, or were merely more imaginary pieces of his life. After dinner we three withdrew to the parlor and Mr. Tilden continured reading aloud. I stayed for only a chapter before retiring to my room, where I hoped to fall immediately asleep, but knew I was more likely to lie awake and unnecessarily ponder matters which anguished me. I did not bother to remove more than my shoes and dress before slumping into bed.

My mind was quieter than it had been the night before, and the night before that; I felt a relative contentment, even a perverse happiness at my situation. I had been a simple girl happy at a small life, but I had not grown into a simple woman, though I sometimes fancied myself as such. As LaBoeuf had said, "Any girl would be happy to have a wealthy step-father and wealthy friends." It was not our wealth that grieved me, but the boredom of our wealthy life. Many people in this world desire to be wealthy and bored and I have never been one of them.

This perverse happiness was embittered only by worriment over my family and how my mother might react at the news about her husband, and what might happen to us without Croft and the security his money brought. We all were were safe at the moment; they were far away in Little Rock and I tried to put them out of my thoughts. Rain fell on the house, heavy and sudden, a succession of the day's showers, and with it all worry and excitement and restlessness washed out of me, and I slept as quickly and as well as I had in months.

My morning with Mrs. Tilden was an early one, and reminded me of the boredom which eternally plagued me in Little Rock. I dressed in my plainest garment, a teal-blue travelling dress, sans bustle and corset, and a pair of boots usually reserved for long walks and games of croquet. Mr. Tilden was not present for breakfast, and without his interruptions Mrs. Tilden delighted to talk as much as it pleased her. I nodded and sipped my tea and struggled to listen; inwardly I carried on a more imperative conversation with myself.

Sheriff Randolph and Mr. LaBoeuf and the other men were meeting at seven—which, by the mantle-clock, was a few minutes from now. It was my plan to pursue their trail at an hour's delay and convene with them at a point when turning back would be impossible; if they wished for me turn back at such an hour an escort would be necessary, and any one of them would object to reducing their numbers or stalling for the escort's return; any move, other than my joining the party, would impede their expedition and cost them the hunt.

After breakfast Mrs. Tilden went to the parlor to sew and I went to the library to draft a note to my mother. Croft and I were meant to arrive home the night before, and I was sure she had gone to bed anxious and woke to greater anxiety. In the writing-table I found paper and a pen and ink and with them I wrote the entire truth. I named LaBoeuf, thinking it would give her some relief to know I was in the company of an old friend.

I paused to review my sentences, then tore the paper and threw it into the fireplace. I began over with a lie that would not disturb her nerves; I wrote not more than five lines, deciding brevity was apt: "Dear Mama, Step-father is delayed by business and we will not be home for a few more days. I apologize for not sending sooner news. I hope you were not caused distress. Dallas is a pleasant city and I will not resent staying here for any duration."

Once finished I gave the return address of the Centennial Inn. Mrs. Tilden insisted I take the carriage when I told her I was on my way to the post office, which was suitable to my plans.

Before we left I filled my purse with every supply I was able to procure: a penknife, two matchboxes, and the food I had surreptitiously stuffed into my pockets during breakfast. In my skirt-pocket was the Marshal's letter to LaBoeuf. I had no weapon, no money, no horse; I wore my bonnet only as a pretence of having business in town.

The rain from the previous night had cleared to a blue sky, above which the sun shone bright and warm; in spite of this pleasantness, the air carried a crisp breeze which even my travelling jacket could not completely guard against.

A pretty carriage came round from the alley just as I walked through the front garden to the street, led by a beautiful brown-bay gelding I could not help but admire. His polished coat gleamed in the morning sun, its rich color flawed only by a white stripe down the length of his face; he had about him a general confidence and liveness, and did not hang his head or look around as he and the driver came to a stop before me, other than to give a little shake of his mane and reins.

"To the post office, Miss Ross?" asked the coachman as he handed me into the carriage.

"Yes sir," said I; though I did not immediately accept his hand, holding mine to my brow to shield my eyes as I had another look at the gelding. As we began driving I remarked, "That is a fine horse. Have the Tildens owned him long?"

The coachman was pleased to have some conversation once I initiated it and eagerly told me the horse's name was Ichabod, that he was bought from a breeder in New Orleans, and was a descendant of a racehorse of the Queen of France. I did not believe all that, but I was sure from the sight of him, his sturdy neck and legs and his alert face, that his caliber of breeding went far beyond that of your average road-horse from New Orleans, or anywhere else.

"And he is only four," added the coachman, when he turned his head to remark me, ignoring the business before him on the street; but it appeared that Ichabod did not need his guidance to know where to go, slowing to avoid pedestrians or going neatly around them, with enough of a berth for the carriage to make it safely around. The coachman further told me that Ichabod was a favorite of Mr. Tilden's, who often rode him into town on errands and to business meetings, when the weather permitted.

I dreaded that which I meanwhile prepared to do. There would be many acts of contrition to follow before I could redeem myself; but it had to be done if my plans were to fall into action, and though I dreaded it, I felt a synchronous thrill at the thought. I could not deny my Christian soul had suffered more corruption since arriving in Dallas than it had in years; yet the thrill remained.

We pulled up alongside the porch of the post office and the coachman got down from his seat to hand me out of the carriage, but instead of giving him my hand I held out the letter to my mother and the dime Mrs. Tilden had lent me to pay for it.

"Would you kindly trouble yourself to send it for me?" I asked, citing the excuse I had erstwhile thought of; I gestured to my bad arm. With a grin he took the coin and letter, tied the horse to one of the porch-columns before going in.

Before the door had even closed behind him I began to climb down from the carriage. It was a year since I last rode and longer since I had tacked up a horse for myself, but I had no trouble with the harness. I unfastened each strap one after the other, followed each time by a nervous glance toward the post office, until the carriage traces fell with a thud. Ichabod jumped, but I gripped his harness at his neck and held him down till he calmed. He was an astute and disciplined horse and I believe it was more than luck that he came into my possession that day.

I had planned initially to borrow a horse and saddle from the Tildens' stable, but the further I studied Ichabod the further I was convinced that our pairing was God's work.

He had no saddle and, knowing I had no time to look for one I made the quick decision to ride him bareback. I knew I was being watched by anyone on the street who had seen me bring Ichabod to the elevated porch of a neighboring store. He was not easy to mount in my heavy travelling dress, but it did provide an unexpected padding under my seat, and the only additional encumbrance I could find was the slight restriction of my arms by my jacket; I recalled the wretched state of my father's coat and trousers after my toils in the Choctaw territory, and foresaw a similar fate for this ensemble.

Ichabod was unsettled by a new rider, with skirts that draped at his sides and no saddle, and began to stomp around. I wrapped up the long carriage-reins in my hand and leaned forward to balance my weight on him. After a moment he settled, and told me he was ready to listen. As we galloped away I heard a commotion behind me, at the carriage and the post office, but I did not bother to turn my head and look back.

Ichabod and I rode north out of town, away from the Tilden residence, but I soon discovered I had gone as long as I could without a saddle. Even through my dense skirts I had grown sore and twice lost my balance and almost fallen. I slowed Ichabod to a walk farther out of town, where the road became less defined and the houses far apart. No one pursued me, at least in my line of sight, or approached from any direction.

We were not far from the point on the map where I recalled the cattle trail lead off. If I rode back into town, I would lose time and attract any search I may have instigated for a woman riding bareback on a stolen horse; and even then where would I find a saddle? Borrowing from the Tildens was certainly out of the question and I had no money to buy one. I made another bad decision of the day.

Along this part of the road I had passed several houses, modest little cottages on half-cleared lots, each separated from the road by a rail fence. The cottage I was closest to, a charming clapboard structure, had a small lean-to barn sitting behind it, clearly home to the family's one or two animals. The gate to their yard sat open and the house looked dark and shut up; not even a bird or squirrel hopped through the grass.

I turned Ichabod and rode through the gate, diverted from the path leading to the house and headed toward the barn. Around back was a chicken coop and half a dozen hens pecking a dirt patch, but still no sign of a landowner. The two stalls of the lean-to were empty, and I slid off Ichabod before guiding him inside.

When I saw the bare nails on the barn's walls, clearly meant to hang saddlery, I feared my trespassing had been in vain, until in the corner of my eye I caught sight of an old brown saddle. It sat atop the haypile in the corner of the stall, and though it was old and its straps looked dry enough to snap, I could not refuse what was available.

I placed the saddle on Ichabod, overtop a tartan blanket I found folded over the wall between the stalls, and replaced its spot on the haypile with his carriage harness. Even Ichabod seemed to have an objection to the weak saddle when I tightened the buckle around his belly. He tossed his head to the side and I calmed him with several strokes of his neck, though I could not say his objections were unfounded.

Not realizing how difficult it would be to mount alone, even with stirrups, with my big dress and years of nonpractice, I had only to find a good spot on the fence to hoist myself up on before Ichabod and I set off again, and more comfortably than how we first embarked. I resumed our direction, to the north, and did not look behind me. I doubted this old saddle sitting in the haypile would be missed, but that did not give me the right to steal it like I had. The Lord would appreciate the circumstances, I hoped.

All I knew about the cattle trail I was to take was that it diverted west from the road I currently travelled. I could only approximate the distance and guess that it would be the first fork I came upon.

The road was pleasantly even and wide for seeing, I imagined, little traffic; but the farther we went from town the rockier it became; especially after passing a conjoined road pointed east. I passed only one other traveller, an older gentleman with his beard tied into a braid, riding a fat white pony, an empty cart rolling along behind them. He removed his hat as we came nearer but said nothing, only stared at my missing arm and me in my travelling dress, directed north into the woods. Ichabod lifted his head proudly, asserting his height over the pony, with an aire of superiority.

Once we passed one another I peered back at the man and he too was peering at me. I grinned and turned back around, pleased, in an impish way, to be a spectacle.

Only three more houses were along the road, both unlike the one I had stolen the saddle from: one more grandiose with a barn sized to match, and the other humbler and made of stone. The last building I encountered, far down the road, was a log-cabin with half its roof caved-in. It was surely abandoned, but I still liked the look of it, the way its walls blended with the brown autumn grove which surrounded it. If it had not have been for the day's bright sunbeams on its irregular shape, I would not have noticed it at all.

Not long after this cabin the road forked in two thinner roads, the right continuing north-east and the other angling a sharp left into the woods. I stopped only presently to collect my fortitude. I leaned forward on Ichabod and placed my hand on his sturdy neck; then we continued west.

If we were to gain on LaBoeuf and Sheriff Randolph before nightfall we would have to move quickly. I anticipated meeting them long before now, and I started Ichabod at a brisk pace. Where the land was flat, we trotted. The path, where it had before been like a strolling lane, was now barely distinguishable from the forest floor. I could only guess to trail the creek-bed that showed up not long after we cut west, and though I doubted myself on this unfamiliar road in strange country, I was determined not to lose faith in my instincts.

Without the reason for this journey constant in my thoughts, the ride itself would have been a pleasant one. In a day or two it would be November, but besides a few trees whose leaves had begun to brown, most stayed green. Back in Little Rock the grove of hickory trees along our driveway would be as bright as lemons now; and in Yell County our property would be every shade of autumn leaf, and the patch by the river where we once grew squash might have bore the vegetable once more.

I had gone almost a mile west now, and had been travelling four hours or more in all without rest; I had just considered stopping to stretch my legs and refill my canteen, and let Ichabod have a drink from the stream, when we came to the crest of a hill and through the trees below I espied two horses. They were tied to the same red-oak trunk, and not more than five paces away were three men huddled about a fire.

From his hat I knew the one faced away from me to be LaBoeuf, the one lounged beside him Sheriff Randolph, and the standing one with the dark moustache I recognized from the meeting in the courthouse the night prior; he had stood next to me in the doorway. I was surprised not to see Deputy Yeats with them, who I thought it had been said would attend them, and disappointed, as I took a liking to his calm manners. I thought it best not to startle them by calling out and instead descended the hill toward them as steadily as I could.

The sheriff clambered to his feet as I came near, alerting his fellows to my presence; had I been any less womanly in appearance he might have drawn his gun. I halted Ichabod as the others faced me and, seeing I was no threat, relaxed. They stared at me, and I at them.

The third man whose name I did not know glanced at the sheriff; and the sheriff, with a smirk, at LaBoeuf; and then they at each other. LaBoeuf did not take his discontented gaze from me.

"I sincerely hope," said he, "that you have come for no other reason than to relay a great emergency which calls Sheriff Randolph back to Dallas."

"You know why I am here," said I.

They were in the midst of a lunch of corncakes and told me to come down and explain myself while they ate. I tied Ichabod to a tree alongside the other animals and first went to the creek to fill my canteen. When I returned to the fireside, the men were discussing myself.

"We can hardly turn back now," said LaBoeuf. He eyed me as I sat down across the camp-fire. "One of us will have to leave the party to escort her."

"And why can she not go alone? She found her way here well enough," said Randolph, laid on his side once more, finger-picking crumbs of corncake from his tinware.

"I am not turning back," I declared.

The sheriff chuckled and grinned toward the other men. "There you have it. I suppose we have been overruled."

LaBoeuf, ignorant of his sarcasm and my remarks as well, said to the third man, "Kinsey, you will take her back."

"I will not go anywhere with a stranger," said I; Randolph protested simultaneously, "He ain't going anywhere!"

Kinsey said, "If you want the girl to leave, you will have to take her yourself."

"You could dangle a bar of gold behind yourself and I would not follow," said I. "I came to witness my step-father's arrest. You have failed to catch him so far, not for want of opportunity, and I will see that it is done or do it myself."

Of the three men LaBoeuf best knew my conviction and, thus, the legitimacy of my statement. Randolph argued that to turn back was the best thing for myself, though his persistance ended at his last bite of corncake. They had to be going, and as I helped them pack up camp, LaBoeuf continued where the sheriff left off:

"You have no weapons, you have barely food for yourself, and you expect I should not be so verbal in my refusal? You are ill-equipped, in all means." He picked up his gloves from where they sat beside the extinguished fire, and they shook in his hand as he pointed a finger at me.

"I do not plan on requiring a weapon for this excursion, Mr. LaBoeuf, unless three grown men will rely on my assistance to apprehend a group which they outnumber."

He pointed his finger at me again, as if he meant to say more, but only scowled and carried on securing his belongings to his saddle.

"Haven't you gone home yet?" said Mr. Kinsey as he walked back to us from a last stop at the creek.

Sheriff Randolph had already mounted his horse, waiting only for the other men before he took off. "Go on home. I will not have it said of me I let a girl attend a dangerous mission and get herself shot."

"You will have to shoot me yourself to prevent it," said I, and turned away from him.

We set off westward flanking the creek, with further complaints from the sheriff and Mr. Kinsey, chiefly from the sheriff, who shouted remarks he presumably thought were clever back at me from his place at the start of our line. Mr. LaBoeuf, to my surprise, said nothing either to myself or the men. All chattering ceased in less than a half-hour; I secretly rewarded myself at the success of my plan, though much contrition would be needed to restore my conscience after all I had done to accomplish it.

After a mile's travel the creek went northward and we passed over it to continue west. The bed was shallow and we did not have to interrupt our line to cross it; though Sheriff Randolph and Mr. LaBoeuf continued on without pause, Mr. Kinsey stopped and looked back at me as Ichabod and I came up the bank behind him. He looked at me only briefly, saying nothing before turning his head straight and kicking his horse into a trot to catch up with the others.

From there on I noticed Kinsey's continual glimpses back at me which were more than casual looks about; he did this three times before I called to him, "Is there something behind me I should be aware of, Mr. Kinsey?"

He turned around to look at me squarely; beyond him Mr. LaBoeuf inclined his ear toward us. "I did not mean to alarm you," said Kinsey. "I am only surprised at your efficiency as a rider. I would not figure a woman to perform so well on this terrain."

"I will accept that as a compliment to myself. I have travelled more challenging trails than this, though I cannot claim to be a credit to my sex. I have always found myself encumbered more by my missing limb than the condition of my birth."

At this Kinsey chuckled and turned away.

His backward glances did not cease, though they steadily decreased in frequency. Hereafter I decided I did not dislike Mr. Kinsey, as my impressions of him had inclined me to do; his opinion of a woman's proficiency in base things was not unique, though his hesitancy to profess his astonishment showed it was not an opinion he held to stubbornly; and his ready admittance of it, and his amusement rather than offence at my reply, were credit to a prideless character.

I was beginning to lose track of the hours and our mileage when Sheriff Randolph turned about his horse and gathered us in a circle. We were deep in the woods now; the air was cool and the sun low, but nowhere near twilight.

Randolph said, "We are a quarter-mile from Harmonville. We should approach in separate parties."

"Harmonville?" said I.

"An abandoned village ahead," Kinsey explained. "It is nothing more than a few cabins. Donohue and Cobb may be hidden out there. If they are travelling this road-way, there is no doubt they would come across it."

"Mattie, you stay here while we handle them. You will only cause trouble for us," said LaBoeuf with a serious look.

"I will do no such thing," said I.

"I have no time for this," said Randolph. "Stay or come—whatever you wish, but know that your choice is your risk alone. Kinsey, you will go around north and LaBoeuf and I will come in from the south. There is a hill just north of the village that will be a good mount for your rifle. I doubt either man is armed with more than a pistol, so we surprise them and hope for the best."

Without a weapon of my own I knew I would be of scant help in this plan of attack, and so went with Kinsey. We travelled not far north before turning again west, and found ourselves going up the slow incline of a hill. Mr. Kinsey had not been this way before, but had studied the map well, and we soon found ourselves at the edge of grassland, which indicated our proximity to Harmonville.

We dismounted and tied our horses to a tall oak, bringing along only Kinsey's Winchester rifle. Smoke crawling into the sky, above the reaches of a sharp knoll to the south, indicated our target. We approached it carefully and crawled up the crest of the hill on our hands and knees.

Our position was indeed ideal for the setting. At the base of the hill was a collection of five cabins arranged in a wide, uneven circle. All but one looked uninhabitable; this, the closest to us, was where the thick smoke plumed from its chimney, a pair of horses were tied to the broken fence beside it. The cabin farthest from us had its roof crushed by a fallen tree; beside this Mr. Kinsey and I spotted a man who was neither Sheriff Randolph or LaBoeuf, and certainly too skinny to be Donohue, splitting wood.

"That must be Cobb," I whispered to Kinsey.

He readied his rifle and found a good area to plant himself, and we waited. The sun was low now, but not quite near setting, and in less than an hour we would be losing light. My heart thumped in my ears as I scanned the tree-line at the other side of the village for the appearance of LaBoeuf and Randolph. The only movement but the sound of my own blood was Cobb's swinging axe; the winds of approaching evening; and Kinsey's heavy breath, which told me he was not any less apprehensive than me.

Finally, at the tree-line beyond the cabins, Kinsey pointed out two emerging figures: Sheriff Randolph and Mr. LaBoeuf. I watched with anxiety as they went toward the occupied cabin, their pistols brandished; but as Cobb brought his axe down on another log their attention focused to that direction. My heart pounded as fearfully as if I were down there among them.

LaBoeuf raised his pistol and advanced toward Cobb first, the sheriff following closely. They did not even holler at him before Cobb dropped his axe and raised his hands in surrender. The sheriff tied his hands around his back with iron handcuffs he brought specifically for that purpose, and shoved the barrel of his pistol into his back as they went toward the occupied cabin.

"Perhaps this will be simpler than we thought," said Kinsey.

All three of them closed in on the cabin steadily, Cobb giving them no trouble; but as they got closer the pitched roof hid them from our view.

"Did they go in?" I said, rapidly uneasy.

There were no windows to the cabin and but for the chimney-smoke and the horses, no sign of activity. Kinsey kept his eyes trained on the house and his hands firm on his rifle, but said nothing.

Two pistol shots sounded from the cabin; I jumped to my knees and felt an instinct to rush down there, but Kinsey grabbed my skirt and pulled me back down. "You cannot run in there blindly and unarmed!" he whispered as if surprise was still on our side.

An angry shout came from the cabin—I could not distinguish the voice—quickly succeeded by a rifle shot through the roof.

"That is LaBoeuf's rifle!" I cried.

"Better his than anyone else's," said Kinsey, with an equanimity I could not believe any sane man could possess in this instant.

I tired of inaction; I grabbed Kinsey's rifle by its barrel and took it with me as I ran down the hill, grabbing my skirts in a bundle at my hip as I went, not bothering to see whether Mr. Kinsey followed. I came around the front of the cabin, my pace quickened by the unanticipated slope of the hill, and I readied the rifle in front of myself. The only thing around to rest it on was a broken-down wagon, now no more than a few boards and one wheel, high grass grown all around it. I would not make the same mistake I had last time I fired a rifle. Though it was not a steady resting place, I could not be choosey, and took my position behind it, resting the barrel in the crux of my bad arm. No sound came from the cabin; I breathed deeply and called out:

"Mr. LaBoeuf! Sheriff Randolph! Mr. Kinsey and I are out here and we have a rifle fixed on the door. Send Cobb and Donohue out first!" My hands shook and thus did the rifle; I forced them to steady, but even so they would not concede.

I watched the hill behind the cabin, but there was no sign of Kinsey there or anywhere around; I could hope only he had not fled, and was waiting in the shadows to make a heroic attack.

The cabin door, latched down by nothing, swung open and out walked Mr. Croft; he looked unlike himself without a hat, in a tarnished neckerchief and sack-coat that fit neither himself or his taste; he was armed with LaBoeuf's Sharps carbine. Here I saw James D. Donohue for the first time.

He advanced a few yards from the cabin and scanned around him before spotting me behind the wagon. "Now, Mattie-dear, put that away," he said. Only my worry about the other men prevented me from putting a shot into his chest.

"Where are Mr. LaBoeuf and Sheriff Randolph?" I shouted. "Send them out!"

Donohue motioned to someone inside the cabin. LaBoeuf emerged with his arms raised, missing his hat and belt; Randolph came out after him, his revolver raised at the back of LaBoeuf's head.


	6. Further Treachery (A Night at Harmonville)

LaBoeuf and Sheriff Randolph walked out halfway between the cabin and the wagon before the sheriff brought them to a stop with a rough command. LaBoeuf's expression combined humiliation and anger; I was sure it was nothing to my horrified consternation.

"You best toss that rifle over here, Miss Ross, unless you'd like to see the inside of your beau's skull," said the sheriff. He shielded himself behind LaBoeuf; I could not fire at him in this position even had the moment permitted.

Even Donohue had his rifle lowered, so certain was it that I could not bring this situation to my upperhand. I met LaBoeuf's eyes, which told me to concede, for both our sakes. My shock turned to anger; I threw the rifle aside and stood up from behind the wagon.

"Now get over here, and do not try anything," Randolph commanded.

Reluctantly, with my eyes steady on LaBoeuf, I did as he said.

"Good girl, Mattie," said Donohue in a sickening tone.

I spat on him as I walked by.

He cursed and raised the butt of his rifle, but Randolph ordered him to halt. "Hold your temper," said he, "at least until Sullivan gets here and we decide what to do with her."

At the door of the cabin appeared a man wielding a pistol. I could presume him only to be the cad who started this all, Freddy Cobb. He was shorter and paler than I envisioned, and altogether kinder-looking, but at this point I would not have trusted a blind nun had she appeared before me.

Randolph commanded LaBoeuf and me to face the wagon and kneel with our hands behind our backs, and had Cobb bind LaBoeuf's wrists with the handcuffs which, minutes before, had been on him. Donohue, all too readily, tied my wrist to my other arm with twine, and bound my bad arm tightly at the elbow to the opposite shoulder, so that I could move neither arm from shoulder on down.

Not long after we were secured and Cobb and Randolph moved off, leaving Donohue as our guard, Mr. Kinsey emerged from the woods. I had a momentary confidence he came as our rescuer, but all hope of his allegiance to us was dashed when the other men cheerily hollered out to him. He came first to retrieve his rifle from the grass at the other side of the wagon where I had dropped it; as he did he gave me what might have been a sympathetic glance. I returned the look, but not its sentiments.

"Are there no men in Dallas with integrity?" I called as he walked away. He did not look back or even pause his step.

The sun began to close on the horizon, graying the little Harmonville scene around us, and turning the western sky through the trees to brilliant golds and lilacs. As if our arrival was an unremarkable interruption of his day, Cobb returned to axing limbs of the fallen tree at the other side of the village and commenced building a fire; Donohue went out to the woods to retrieve LaBoeuf and Randolph's horses; all went about their business as if we were not there. Kinsey took over Donohue's post, sat on a bench behind us, smoking, with his pistol resting on his knee; with my back turned to the cabin I had lost track of Randolph. I had half a suspicion he was inside, napping.

Donohue returned shortly from the woods, leading the two horses, and brought them around to tie up with the others at the side of the cabin; this reminded me that Ichabod and Kinsey's horse were yet over the hill, but I made a point not to express this, so they might be forgotten by our enemies as well. LaBoeuf had not spoken for a whole half-hour, but as he saw Donohue unsaddling his mare he called out a warning to him, laced with more than one expletive, which Donohue returned with a threat, and Kinsey cocked his pistol and threatened both of them.

It was twilight when our four captors gathered around their campfire, leaving LaBoeuf and me unguarded, but not more than a few yards from them. We were close enough to see the oats they boiled and the beans they shoveled into their mouths, and hear the scraping of their forks against their teeth; but far enough that the warmth of the fire did not reach us. We were both slumped over, hungry and tired, and in further dispirits by our position. I looked at LaBoeuf. His eyes were half-shut and at first I thought he had fallen asleep, before he turned his face away from me.

"I do not suppose you have a plan of escape," I murmured.

LaBoeuf only glanced at me before he returned to staring at the ground. "I am afraid not. Randolph stripped me of my guns and my knife in the cabin. Even if we can get to them, our chance of escape is low."

"They mean to kill us when Sullivan gets here," said I.

"It seems likely," said he, and then after a pause, "If it had not been for you, I would be dead at present. At least Randolph shows some measure of morality in his reluctance to kill a woman."

I thought about this, and said, "That was their design this entire time—to bring you here to be murdered—to bury you here and return to their lives as if no treachery had occurred." It was just as likely they would have, and might yet, bury me beside him; Donohue would then return to Little Rock and to our home and say anything he pleased about how I died or disappeared: trampled by a team of draft horses, or kidnapped, or run away. Their lives, Mama's and Victoria's and Little Frank's, would all continue without me. I thought of Pomme, my little pug, his sweet, curious face, his wrinkled nose and bulging eyes, his snores and twitches in his sleep, and how jealous Victoria had been when he came running to my lap on that birthday morning, a red bow and rose around his neck.

Had I only sent that first letter to Mama!—the truthful one I foolishly threw away in favor of that note full of lies which would not worry her or inform her of my true whereabouts. No one in the world but the sheriff's men knew we were out here in this abandoned town, on this abandoned cattle trail.

"This is foolish to bring up now," I said to LaBoeuf, without looking at him. "There is a letter in my pocket that belongs to you, from Marshal Cogburn. I intended to deliver it to you these past days, but I forgot again and again. Obviously, more pressing matters got in the way."

He looked at me as if he did not wholly believe me. "How did you come by it?" he asked.

"Oh, that is not important. I have not read it, if that is what you're thinking."

"I wish you had," said he. "It seems like neither of us will have the occasion to read it now."

I looked to the camp-fire, where the men were finishing their meal. I doubted the idea occurred to any of them to offer us even a bite. Either way, it did them more good than it would our ill-fated stomachs.

"I am sorry, Mattie," said LaBoeuf in a low voice. "If it were not for me you would not be in this predicament. I allowed you to follow me here and I was too foolish to see through Randolph's guise."

"Nonsense. My being here is no one's fault but my own. And you are no more foolish than the entirety of the city of Dallas. They were the ones who elected him sheriff," said I. "If you had your way I would not have come here. I followed you of my own accord."

It was half-way to night now; heavy blues and grays shadowed the village; I could have admired the scene in more tranquil circumstances. Our conversation, and our captors' supper, was interrupted by the echo of hoofbeats from the east. From around a grove of pines came two men on horseback, coming to us at top speed, and slowing as they entered the village.

Donohue rose, wielding LaBoeuf's carbine, and the three others around the fire rose as well. The riders, one man and one boy, slowed to a walk as they reached LaBoeuf and me. The first, sitting upright and rigid, holding his reins in one hand with the other relaxed on his thigh, was Mr. Tilden. He did not give us so much as a glance as he passed. I was unsurprised; Rutherford B. Hayes himself could have ridden into that village, shaken hands with Donohue, and shared his flask of whiskey, and I would remain unsurprised.

But the sight of another supposed friend here renewed my anger. The boy riding at the back looked down at me; first I thought he was a boy, but in his mouth were a pair of gapped front teeth, and when our eyes met there was no doubt this boy was Mrs. Tilden dressed in trousers, her hair pinned up beneath a slouch hat. She watched me with bewilderment and I returned her with a scowl. She turned straight ahead, and she and her husband went on toward the camp-fire.

I knew at once Mr. Tilden was indeed Pitt Sullivan.

"Is the whole town of Dallas against us?" remarked LaBoeuf.

"Why is the girl here?" Sullivan called to the men around the fire as he and Mrs. Tilden dismounted. His gentlemanly coastal drawl, which sounded full of good-will when we met, now bathed his words with malice, and made him all the more sinister.

"She followed us without my knowledge," said Randolph. "We tried to turn her around, but she is—stubborn."

Cobb took Sullivan's horse and put him with the others. They now numbered six against us; though I before had some idea of escaping, any slim chance of it now relied solely on prayer.

"And why is the ranger still alive? My instructions were clear," said Sullivan. I could scarcely believe this was the man I dined beside the night before, who had allowed me a warm bed in his home, who had been so genteel and generous.

The men were now not much more than silhouettes against the camp-fire and the dimming sky; I could distinguish them only by their height and voice. Kinsey's was the only face and figure clearly defined in the firelight; he contributed nothing as the others went on with their discussion.

"We thought the girl might change things," replied Randolph.

"Will we kill her as well?" said Mrs. Tilden.

"Of course we will," said Donohue. He sat down at the fire with his back to us.

"I do not see another option," said Sullivan. "She is just as likely to ruin us as the ranger. You witnessed how ready she was to see her own step-father hanged." He spoke reasonably, as if this were a discussion of doing in an old pony.

"I will not enjoy seeing her killed," said Mrs. Tilden.

The patience ran from Sullivan's tone. "Would you better enjoy seeing me hang, Dinah-darling?—or yourself?"

"I suppose not."

"Right. Now, have a seat by the fire and we will be on our way home soon. Donohue," Sullivan said, kicking the log on which Donohue sat, "take the ranger and your girl into the cabin and shoot them."

I turned to LaBoeuf. He was alert but not tense with terror and dread as I was; his shoulders were rigid, but his eyes calm. I would not be calm until my breath left my body. "Shall we make a run for it?" I whispered to him; though I knew it was a hazardous idea, we did not have a plethora of options.

"If we run they will shoot us on the spot," replied LaBoeuf. "It is better to search for an opening while they move us inside, or stall and try to talk our way out."

Donohue was happy to be assigned our murderer; he took up his pistol as soon as Sullivan asked, but before he took his first step toward us Mrs. Tilden rose from her seat and stopped him.

"I prefer to do it," said she. "I am more of a friend to Miss Ross than any of you and I believe she has the right to be killed by someone who does not revel in her death."

This did not seem to me a logical or sane assumption, but Sullivan agreed to it. Either way the outcome would be the same; if I had to be shot, I did not care which of them did it. Donohue handed Mrs. Tilden his pistol and both walked over to us, neither in a hurry.

At the urging of Donohue's carbine I preceded the rest of them into the cabin. It was a tiny room, smaller than it looked from the outside, with room enough for only an empty bedstead, the fireplace (which was no more than a stone hearth), a small table and chair, and a few persons.

"Try not to be afraid, Mattie," said LaBoeuf, after Donohue pushed him into the room after me.

I replied, "Why? Will it be less painful that way?"

Donohue remained outside the open door, pointing his rifle inward, and Mrs. Tilden told us to face away from her and kneel in front of the bed. We did as she said and I began muttering my prayers of contrition.

"I like you very much, Miss Ross," said Mrs. Tilden. "I wish things really had turned out differently. We could have gone on to be lifelong friends."

"You do not have to continue this violence," I said shakily. "If you save us now, and testify in court against your husband and those other men, you will never again have to defend them. You will never have to kill anybody."

Her pistol cocked. "I love my husband and our life together too much for that."

A shot rang out—but not within the cabin. It was the far-off crack of a rifle. Then came frenzied pistol-shots and shouting, and the hoofbeats of three horses or more, and the gunfire came closer.

"What's going on!" cried Mrs. Tilden, and I looked over my shoulder to see her peering out the door, then cracking a shot through it, and running off.

A bullet glanced the door, banging it shut against its frame, and snuffing out the evening-light in the cabin. Another bullet came through the wall and LaBoeuf sacked me to the floor beside him. We crawled into the space between the hearth and the bed, the only stone structure in the room, and laid still as we listened to the commotion. A woman shouted like she was giving commands, horses whinnied, and farther away someone screamed in pain; the firing did not cease.

Then came more hoofbeats, after which the gunfire moved off, and the clamor faded, until the only sound was LaBoeuf's breathing. "Are they gone?" I whispered.

Again came a woman hollering outside, short and authoritative, and close by.

"I would say not," he replied.

We waited silently for something more. Just outside the cabin came the grunt and harness-shake of a horse, and the voice of another woman.

The door burst open. In the doorway, against the dusk, stood the faint contour of a woman in trousers and a long coat; her hair hung loose about her shoulders, beneath a wide, flat hat. She drew her pistol and pointed it at us. "Who are you?" she demanded.

Neither LaBoeuf nor I knew what to make of this stranger; we hardly knew whether she was a friend or foe, and whether the truth or a lie was likelier to put us in danger. We said nothing.

The woman said, "Well, I can tell by your situation you ain't friends of Pitt Sullivan's." She holstered her pistol and called to someone outside, "Lottie! Get in here!" She came over to LaBoeuf and yanked him to his feet by his collar.

A Negro woman appeared at the door, responding to the other's call, dressed in the same manner as the first: trousers, tall boots, but donning a woolen poncho instead of a coat; beneath her hat her head was all but completely shaved. Her hands rested on a pair of pistols around her hips. "Who are they?" she asked.

"Won't say," said the white woman.

Seeing I was having trouble standing up with tied arms, she grabbed me under my shoulder and pulled me to my feet. I shoved her away. "My name is Mattie Ross. James D. Donohue is my step-father. Though before yesterday, I knew him only as Croft. This is Mr. LaBoeuf, a friend of mine, whose trustworthiness I can attest to with utter certainty. We were about to be killed for uncovering Sullivan and Donohue's rouse."

"It is not unbelievable either man would do such a thing," said Lottie (what the black woman had been adressed as) and looked at her friend. They pondered us for a moment, before the white woman unholstered her gun and waved it at LaBoeuf.

"Let's go outside," she said.

Nearly any trace of day was gone now and what was left rapidly vanished. Not much of the village had changed. Three new horses, still with their saddles, grazed around the old wagon, and at the other side of the village the camp-fire and the log-benches around it remained undisturbed. A figure stood at the fire with her back to us, her dark hair long and loose like the white woman's. She turned to look at us as we approached; by her complexion and features illuminated in the firelight, I saw she was Mexican, and younger than the others, not more than five years older than myself.

A few paces from the fire lay a body face-down in the grass, a dark blood-stain on his back, his hat sitting upturned beside him and a rifle in his hands. By his clothes I recognized him as Mr. Kinsey. In another direction, nearly beyond the reach of firelight, was a dead horse.

"Gal says she's Donohue's daughter," announced Lottie to the newest stranger.

"Step-daughter," I corrected. "He married my mother little over three years ago. He lied about his identity when we met and lied every day afterward."

She signalled for LaBoeuf and me to sit and so we did. LaBoeuf chose a nearby log and did his best to go about with dignity; if he was embarrassed to be tricked by his colleagues, it must have drove him crazy to be captive to three women.

"Should we believe her?" answered the Mexican woman, with the shadow of an accent.

"I have yet to decide," answered the white woman.

With a smirk the Mexican woman said, "Let us find out," and stepped up to LaBoeuf to rummage through his coat-pockets, inside and out.

He protested, "I demand you let us go! You have determined already we are not Sullivan's allies. Have you never heard that the enemy of an enemy is—"

Lottie pulled one of her pistols from her belt, pushed the barrel into his cheek, and told him to shut up; he did. Only after laying open LaBoeuf's coat to go through his interior pockets did they discover the silver badge pinned to his shirt. The Mexican woman looked seriously at the badge, then at LaBoeuf, and I thought, surely we are dead.

She pulled the pin out of his shirt and threw the badge to the white woman, saying, "Look at this!"

The white woman concentrated seriously upon it in her hand. She replied at last, "I cain't read this. Is he the sheriff?"

The black woman walked over and took the badge from her. "A Texas Ranger." She smirked. "Might as well be a sheriff. Do we kill him?"

"No!" I pleaded, with immediacy that surprised even myself; I wished desperately not to return to that situation which we had just nearly escaped. "Mr. LaBoeuf is not after you. We do not know even your names. We are after Sullivan, Donohue, Cobb, and everyone in their employ. You would be paying those men a favor by killing us."

The white woman tossed the badge back at LaBoeuf and it landed in the grass beside him. "If you truly are in pursuit of Sullivan and the rest of his men, you would do well to stay out of our way. I wash my hands of any harm that may befall you should you choose to do otherwise."

The Mexican woman left a switch-blade on LaBoeuf's knee, and without more than a handful of words between themselves the three women rode off toward the west, as inexplicably as they came. The camp-fire burned on in front of us.

After struggling for some time over the blade, and more than once watching it slip from LaBoeuf's hands, I grabbed ahold of it and sawed at the rope rigged around my shoulders and arms, talking as I did:

"We should head back to Dallas at first light. I do not care a whit about catching Donohue now. I just want to get home before they return to tie up their loose ends."

"Home?" asked LaBoeuf. He faced my back and directed me as I sawed through the knot. "We cannot go back to Dallas, let alone home! Randolph will have us branded as criminals by the time we reach him. Every crow and pigeon in that city will have his eyes out for us."

I freed myself quickly from the rope and spent more time working at LaBoeuf's iron handcuffs. The key was nowhere to be found around the fire or in the cabin, and only after locating the ax and working it between the links of the chain were LaBoeuf's arms freed, but his wrists remained within the bracelets.

It was now completely the reign of night and nothing was visible to us beyond the circle of light the fire threw—we decided to move inside. I took an armful of the firewood Cobb had cut; LaBoeuf stayed back to inspect the horse and the body of Mr. Kinsey. Before I was halfway to the cabin, he called out, "Miss Ross! He is still alive!"

Knowing we could not carry him bare-handedly anywhere, and knowing we could not leave him here in the grass, LaBoeuf and I utilized the broken wagon as Kinsey's gurney and brought him to the cabin where, a half-hour before, we had nearly met our deaths. It was not the sturdiest craft, and I was not the greatest steersman; Mr. Kinsey slid off it once, crying out and cursing us when he hit the ground, but it was better than dragging him by his ankles. We took him as far as we could to the door, where the wagon was too large to go through, and LaBoeuf brought him over to the bedstead and laid him down on the exposed boards.

I removed my jacket and rolled it into a pillow for him; I feared beyond that we could not do much else. His wounds were on his front-side and neither of them had passed through; one shot to the shoulder and another in his upper thigh—neither would be perilous injuries, if his leg did not bleed so extraordinarily fast.

Using his bowie-knife, LaBoeuf helped me cut the hem of my skirt (a stiffer material than my petticoat) and made bandages of it for Kinsey's wounds: one for his shoulder and three for his thigh. He screamed and cursed us when we tightened the cloths around his wounds. As LaBoeuf secured Kinsey's shoulder dressings, I went outside once more to collect the firewood I had dropped, and when I returned LaBoeuf was sitting at the hearth in the cabin's only chair, his arms crossed over his chest. The broken handcuffs, now released from his wrists, sat on the table beside his knife and belt.

"Sensible people might say we are mad for helping a man who nearabout let us die," said LaBoeuf.

"Letting him suffer would not be the Christian thing to do," I replied. "Be patient. I suspect it will not be long before Mr. Kinsey receives his just deserts."

I placed the logs down by the fire, which had dwindled to mere embers since the departure of our assailants. LaBoeuf knelt before the hearth and got to reviving the flames; I went to Kinsey's side and placed my hand on his forehead. It was as cold as stone.

"Shoot me and put me out of my misery," said Kinsey. I drew my hand back in surprise—I had not realized he was awake—and his eyes slowly opened.

I felt for him as I would for any man, but I was not without my resentment. "You are a not a horse," said I. "Had you called out for help and not laid so long bleeding in the grass, you would not be this far gone."

"I feared those women would take another shot at me," said he; with a groan he reached down to his thigh. "I can't hardly feel my leg."

I slapped his hand away. "Yes, that is what happens when one gets one's self shot."

I brought the chair to the bedside and sat beside him.

Once LaBoeuf brought the fire to an impressive size, lighting the room well, he stood at the end of Kinsey's bed and leered at him. "Do you know these women that attacked the camp?" he asked.

"Well—I know they were not your usual housewives out for a stroll," said Kinsey with a chuckle, and a painful cough. LaBoeuf and I exchanged a look, of dissatisfaction on his part, and displeasure on mine. "I can be of some use before I bleed out," Kinsey went on with heavy, pained inhalations, and heavy sentiment. "I saw Sullivan get shot before I was, and Randolph was hit as they fled."

"Mortal wounds?" asked LaBoeuf.

Kinsey tilted his head from side to side. "Not Sullivan's. He was hit in the leg. I am unsure about Randolph. But it is not where they were shot that is important―they would not dare ride back into Dallas each sporting wounds of that nature. It is too suspicious, and Judge Wakefield has a doubtful eye cast on the sheriff already. We have a place of rendezvous, a vacant farm little-ways south of a town called Grape Vine. Randolph may have ridden back into Dallas, but Sullivan will have gone there to recover. The farm is where you will find them."

I proclaimed it was best for Mr. Kinsey to speak no more and LaBoeuf left thereafter to secure Kinsey's horse and mine, which I revealed were strung up over the hill. In the silence which his absence brought, with only Kinsey's labored breath to distract me, I stared into the roaring fireplace, following the rapid movement of its flames. I wanted to think of mother and of my malice toward Mr. Croft, but my stomach rumbled, and I could think of nothing but my hunger and thirst.

"I am sorry, Miss Ross," said Kinsey abruptly. I turned to him; his eyes were closed. He spoke more softly than he had in LaBoeuf's presence.

"You are only sorry because you ended up here," said I. "You would not be repentant if things went to your liking."

After a hesitation of long, heavy breaths, he said, "Perhaps not, but I would regret my part in your death. You must understand that I do not sin for sin itself. Mr. Tilden—Pitt Sullivan is his real name—pays the sheriff a generous amount to conceal him from the law. In turn, the sheriff pays me."

"Is this what you plan to tell St. Peter?" said I.

He shook his head. "It is not an excuse. I only want you to understand my reasons. I have a wife and three daughters. I want them to be comfortable and happy. I never would have done it if not for their sakes."

"If only a judge were present to hear you testify against Sheriff Randolph and the rest of them, or a pastor to hear your confession."

"I do not expect God to forgive me," said he, "but if you will, I think that shall be enough."

I looked back at the fire and let my mind follow its dancing flames; when I looked again at Mr. Kinsey (perhaps with the intention of forgiveness; I had not decided) I saw that his mouth hung open and he had fallen asleep.

LaBoeuf returned later than I had predicted; when I opened the cabin door for him I realized why that was. He had ridden Ichabod the half-mile back to the creek and fetched water with the canvas bucket from Kinsey's supplies. I hurried to fill my canteen with it and by the time LaBoeuf had gone out to retrieve more necessities from the saddlebags and come back, I drank nearly the full canteen.

I tried to raise Mr. Kinsey and get him to drink, but he barely lifted his head and would wake only to have a sip. He was ice-cold and his face was damp all over. I separated the tarp and blanket of the bedroll LaBoeuf brought in and spread only the blanket over him; I knew it would be of more use to LaBoeuf or myself, and would supply Kinsey with only meager comfort until his end, but I could not bring myself to do nothing for him.

LaBoeuf brought in both of Kinsey's saddlebags and we went through them to see what they might provide us. It was not much. He had equipped himself for a journey which would last no longer than this evening. We had his revolver, which I determined was now mine, and in his tandem satchel was half a corncake (our dinner), a dirk knife, tinware, two cartridge-boxes, and a wallet with three dollars and twenty-five cents and a daguerreotype of a tall, sharp-featured woman in a summer gown, holding an infant.

I tried to feed Kinsey a bite of the corncake but could not wake him; his heartbeat was slow, his breath was scarcely audible.

LaBoeuf was counting the cartridges when I separated the bedroll, laying the inner blanket over Kinsey, and the tarp on the floor in front of the fire; he asked sharply, "What are you doing? That blanket will be of little use to him now."

I noticed LaBoeuf's manner declining; whether a result of Sheriff Randolph's betrayal, or our ignorance of his true allegiance, or my insistence to aid Kinsey, I did not know and did not ask. Under a mellower disposition I may have met his irritability with empathy, and offered some alleviation of what ailed him, but not that night. "He may die from his wounds but I will not let him freeze to death. He deserves what comfort we can afford him," said I.

"I do not think he deserves that much," replied LaBoeuf.

I smoothed the tarp and laid down closest to the fire with Kinsey's satchel as a pillow. I had not forgotten the kiss which LaBoeuf and I shared years since and though I hesitated to assume the event was as noteworthy to him as it was to myself, it was not my object to appear intent on having him beside me. Practicality lorded over modesty in circumstances like these. Declarations had not been made, nor promises; I could not be certain our kiss had meant anything at all, then or now.

I closed my eyes and listened to the clinking of metal as LaBoeuf counted the cartridges, then the closing snap of the box and his spurs jangling as he removed his boots. He laid beside me wordlessly and all that was left was the crackling fire.

I was tired and thought sleep would come immediately, but I could not will my eyes to close. The floorboards were hard and distressing to settle down on. Only when I detected that LaBoeuf was asleep did I try turning over. What sleep I was then able to achieve was inconsistent and shallow. I dipped in and out of dreams, of home and trains and Papa, always awakened by my growling stomach; we each had only a bite of corncake for supper, and I believed the taste of it made me hungrier than before.

The fire died quickly and my limbs were too weak to rise and throw on another log, leaving myself cold and shivering. I only began to sleep when blue dawn illuminated the hole in the ceiling and the chinks in the walls.

When I sleep too far past sunrise I can always recall my dreams with striking detail. That morning I dreamt I walked along the brick driveway our Little Rock home, but when I reached the house and entered, the interior became that of our farmhouse in Yell County. Mr. Croft was at the back door—"Donohue!" I yelled, "Donohue!"—I begged Mama not to let him in, told her all about James D. Donohue, but she did not believe me, or did not care. Then Pomme was sick, so sick he lost his fur, because Donohue had fed him cake or some other sweet thing, and I went to call on the veterinarian but Donohue would not let me go, and I ran about searching for a door or window, but none would open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave questions and comments and any thoughts you have! I love hearing feedback!


	7. Being Mrs. Best

By sunrise Kinsey was dead. His body was gone from the bed by the time I woke, my jacket and blanket in his place, and LaBoeuf was not at my side. I shook out the blanket and tarp and rolled them up together. With reluctance, I also put on my jacket, which had served as Kinsey's pillow. If this were Little Rock I would have burnt that jacket; but the decorum which one abides by at home does not govern the trail.

Beyond the cabins at the other side of the village, LaBoeuf was down to his shirtsleeves, both hands around a shovel, digging. As I walked over to him I saw he was filling a grave no greater than three feet deep. All but the toe of Kinsey's boot was indistinguishable beneath the loose earth, until LaBoeuf threw a fresh heap over him, and that too was hidden.

Using boards pried from the broken wagon we laid a wooden barrier in the grave before filling in the rest of the earth and mounding it up. I marked the site with the smoothest, prettiest stones I could gather, and laid them in a cross over the mound. By the time we finished LaBoeuf's forehead beaded with sweat and his shoulders slumped like an old man's; he must have been working hours before I woke.

More bad luck had hit us while we slept. Kinsey's black mare had slipped her reins and, like her owner, disappeared into the night. LaBoeuf had been to search for her all over with no luck. Only Ichabod remained to carry us where we needed to go.

With nothing more for us in Harmonville we decided, with or without the mare, we would breakfast and shortly leave this depressing village. While I prepared a fire in the ashes of last night's LaBoeuf armed himself with Kinsey's Winchester and set off over the hill to search again for the mare and, more importantly, something to eat.

Not long after I struck one of the matches I brought with me from the Tildens' house and set it to the kindling, a rifle shot rang out from the north. A minute later LaBoeuf came back over the hill with no mare, but with a possum in hand, its head crush in by a shot. LaBoeuf skinned the poor creature with his bowie-knife and we carefully roasted him on a long twig. It was not an elegant meal, but I ate as if glazed ham and baked apples sat before me on the dinner table.

Only after our tins were clean of any last crumb did we discuss our next movements.

"The smartest plan of action is to find a post-office and contact my colleagues in Waco. They will send reinforcements, have Randolph arrested, and we will be free to move against Sullivan," said LaBoeuf simply.

"What post-office?" I asked. "We cannot go back to Dallas, certainly. If Randolph is there, as Kinsey said, he will shoot us and have us arrested before we get anywhere near a post-office."

"Fort Worth, then, or the next town. I do not suppose you have a better proposal."

"My plan was to get Donohue and Cobb, watch them hang, and go home. However, each one of those things seems impossible to bring about at present." I paused. "Whatever we do we cannot stay here. Randolph and Sullivan will be looking for us—they may expect us even in Fort Worth. A smaller town would be best."

Neither of us knew the way to a smaller town, but LaBoeuf conjectured if we continued southwest where the cattle trail went north, we were bound to stumble across someplace. If not, the prospects of finding our way back to Harmonville were low.

We packed up our sparse belongings and fitted Ichabod with Kinsey's saddlebags, our meager supplies inside them. Already the once soft velvet of my purse was dirty and matted; it fit in alongside the rest of our things.

LaBoeuf looked very fine as he walked from the cabin, where he ascertained we had not forgotten anything, his belt and holster once again around his waist and his hat rightfully on his head. I had no mirror with which to judge my appearance, but I was sure I did not look nearly as fine after our night spent on the dirt floor, even after finger-brushing and braiding my hair into a single lock, a style I had not worn in years.

LaBoeuf wielded the reins at the front of the saddle and I squeezed in behind. Without stirrups, my feet dangled at Ichabod's sides and I leaned forward onto LaBoeuf for balance, bringing us uncomfortably close from an already uncomfortable arrangement. We set off west from the village. Before long, I found myself asleep against his back.

We were two riding on one; Ichabod's protestation to our weight was evident in his leaden stride and a stop once an hour to relieve him delayed us further. During the first of these stops I was asleep, but I was aware of an interruption to our movement, and when I woke I was at the front of the saddle, leaning back onto LaBoeuf instead of forward, his arms around me to grip the reins.

I raised my head from his shoulder and said, "I am sorry. I did not feel so tired before we began travelling. Let me take the reins for awhile."

"There is not much horsemanship to be done on this trail," he protested. "You were less likely to fall seated like this."

Our path now brought us through open grassland where the wind whipped and howled freely around us, much unlike the woodsy trail in and out of Harmonville.

We made our next stop not long after I woke, and built a small fire to warm ourselves as Ichabod pulled at the grass alongside the road. I wrapped the bed-roll around my shoulders and sat with my back to the wind. LaBoeuf wore no protection but his coat and did not even turn up his collar. If he were in a pleasanter state he might have taken this opportunity to tell me . We had nothing to discuss; our destination and goal were definite, and we were both too weatherbeaten and hungry to lend the spirit for conversation.

Only when I moved my arms beneath the blanket did I find something to mention; something moved in my skirt, and I recalled LaBoeuf's letter from the marshal. I pulled it from my pocket and handed it to him, saying, "You should have this now—the letter I told you about yesterday."

He nodded at me and struck open the envelope with his knife. It contained a single page which, once LaBoeuf finished, he handed to me. Cogburn's writing was ripe with misspellings, which have here been corrected:

"Mr. LaBoeuf—in Austin I caught word you are in pursuit of a coach robber named Freddy Cobb. I have known a ranger was after him, but until now I did not know that ranger was you. Because of this I suspect our paths will soon unfortunately meet again. I am right now on the trail of a notorious criminal known as Copperhead (here a few words were smudged over so as to be unreadable) who is in turn trailing Cobb in order to take revenge for some misdeed. I propose we join forces in Dallas and invent a trap to ensnare both criminals at once. (Signed) Marshal Reuben Cogburn."

"I thought he was let go from the U.S. Marshals after he killed those Wharton men," I said as I looked up from the letter.

"I heard the same," said LaBoeuf. "I cannot fathom what could have brought about his reinstatement, in Arkansas or elsewhere. And I have never heard of any man called Copperhead."

That name, spoken aloud, stirred a memory—the women who rescued us from execution at the hands of Mrs. Tilden, the first one's blazing red hair, much like gleaming copper. "Could he mean those women that shot up the village?" I asked. "They mentioned they were after Pitt Sullivan's gang. They may be the ones that chased Cobb out of hiding, and Copperhead may be a nickname for the red-headed one."

LaBoeuf shook his head. "Why would Cogburn not mention this Copperhead is a woman? Whatever the case, Sullivan's gang is our sole object. Those women may be the ones Cogburn is after but they are no concern of ours."

"They will be a concern of ours if they get to Donohue or Cobb or Sullivan first. I do not suspect they intend to hand the men over to the proper authorities once they have them," said I.

LaBoeuf had no further patience with which to argue; I do not think he liked to consider there was any woman in the world more effective at a manhunt than he was, let alone just in Texas.

We stamped out the fire and pressed on. I returned to my place at the back of the saddle, my arms once again around LaBoeuf's waist and my head laid against his back. We passed over further prairie-land and had the distant view of a lake before re-entering the woodland and its cool shadows.

LaBoeuf's new coat (I say new without knowing its actual age; for all these years I never pictured him in anything but the fringed buckskin he wore in the Choctaw Nation) smelled of pine sap and tobacco and all the smells one would expect his clothes to carry. I was comforted to have my cheek pressed against it.

We at last encountered a road, no more than a stripe of dirt beaten into the ground by hooves and wheels, which we rode west into the late afternoon; one farm appeared and then another, then charming little houses close to the road, until we were entered the town of Grape Vine.

Our business was to find a post-office and get a letter to the Texas Rangers in Waco, the nearest authorities we could unfailingly trust—but it would take days for a letter to reach them, and days longer for any number of officers to reach us—long enough for the criminals to slip away. 

Before we arrived in town, LaBoeuf and I agreed to use aliases in the case Pitt Sullivan had spies here like in Dallas. LaBoeuf suggested we pose as husband and wife; though his tone was all seriousness, and had nothing soft about it, the suggestion nevertheless rattled me.

"I go by John Best whenever an alias is needed. Should anyone ask for your name, you can use Mary."

"Those are very plain names," I remarked. "If I could choose a new name for myself I would make it more enchanting."

"The purpose of an alias is not to enchant. It is to conceal one's identity and conform with surroundings—not to amplify one's conspicuousness."

At any rate I thought Mary too plain, even if it was inconspicuous, and contemplated a different name for myself; I first considered Belphoebe, after the faerie queene, but instead settled on a humbler literary namesake: Cordelia.

Grape Vine was an unremarkable town full of unremarkable structures, hardly larger than a trading post. Its residents, from what I could make of those walking by or lingering in the streets, were plain, simple, and proud, like everyone in trading post towns across the west. We had the five dollars and change Kinsey left us (I objected to spending one penny, as he left no instructions on what should be done with his belongings, and I had an idea of returning everything to his widow, but I saw no other choice in our situation).

Our first task was to rest and feed Ichabod. A man at the center of town directed us down a crossroad and we alighted not far away, at a suitable livery stable. LaBoeuf dismounted quickly, then helped me down after him; he was all business. Not one smile had crossed his face today, nor had he entered into his habitual anecdotes or boastings during breakfast or along the road. 

"Once I have finished at the post office I will meet you at the boardinghouse we passed on our way in," said he, and took a dollar of our funds before handing me the rest. 

I stood and watched as he disappeared toward the main-street, and when I turned around a stable-keeper stood ready to take Ichabod's reins.

I found immediately this establishment was not a desirable place to board one's beloved animals. The livery was a simple dim corridor flanked by a dozen stalls, fair-sized and clean, but my apprehension was not with the keep of the place. Halfway to Ichabod's stall, in a recess of the barn that served as the tack room, I spied three young men all perched on stools, tossing dice across the stone floor toward a bed of dollar-bills. One gripped a dark bottle in his hand.

When the stable-keeper saw me staring at them, he let go of Ichabod to trudge over to the boys and shout, "Save that for the saloon! Can't you see there are womenfolk around?"

As we continued to the second to last stall, I noticed another man sitting above us in the hayloft, also with a whiskey bottle in hand. If there were any other livery in town I would have snatched up Ichabod's reins and walked him straight there; but as we were told when we were directed to this place, this was the only such establishment around, and at fifty cents a day, as long as Ichabod was taken care of, I could not complain about the other activities of the stable-keepers. 

I saw Ichabod into his stall—a square, comfortable, freshly-bedded place—before signing a receipt for the horse and his saddle, as  _ Cordelia Best.  _ I kissed Ichabod's nose and once again bid him goodbye before taking a saddlebag on each shoulder and going in search of the boardinghouse.

Grape Vine was not difficult to navigate, especially through the route previously trafficked. Town was no more than two-dozen buildings surrounding the center crossroad, none of which made a pretense of being luxurious. One of these was the boardinghouse. 

Despite being a humbler structure than the Centennial Inn or even the Monarch in Fort Smith, the boardinghouse, which bore no signage but that which identified it as such, manifested as a significant monument in town, situated on a grassy lot just beyond the commercial buildings; but, like the livery, this was likely the best if not only option available to travellers.

I must have made a horrific sight climbing the steps to that house, for when I came in the door and sat down my bags, a woman came around into the hall and clasped her hand over her mouth at the sight of me, crying, "Good heavens! Are you well?"

Only once I followed her eyes downward to the torn and muddy hem of my skirt did I understand that it was only the state of my dress which alarmed her.

"I have been through rough terrain," said I. "My husband and I, that is. We would like for a room for tonight."

"Well--of course. The rate is two dollars a night per guest, including dinner this evening and breakfast tomorrow." She moved to take one of the saddlebags, and noticed with a frown my missing arm. "Well, if you and your husband will share a room, one dollar and fifty cents will be just right."

Mrs. Abbot, as she introduced herself, then took a bag from my shoulder and the bedroll I carried under my arm (more than I imagined she did for the average patron) and preceded me to the stairs.

The house's ornamentation was as modest as its architecture; sparse furniture, barren walls, and as for the hall, a hook rug and a flower-vase were the sum of its decor. Modest too was Mrs. Abbot, whose beige house-gown rivaled even my travelling ensemble in its simplicity. She was younger than any other boardinghouse matron I had yet encountered, in her forties at most, no taller or shorter than myself, with a healthy, plump look about her, and smooth pink cheeks.

"Tell me, where is Mr. Best at this moment?" she asked as we climbed the stair.

"He is—running an errand," I answered, in practice to let on no more about ourselves than was necessary. "He will be here shortly."

The room I was shown to was satisfactory, but I realized once we arrived there that sharing a room with LaBoeuf as man and wife meant sharing a bed as well. Mrs. Abbot quit the room and we exchanged smiles before she closed the door behind herself, but my grin disappeared when I turned to regard the solitary bed in the room. I supposed LaBoeuf had not fathomed this when he made his "proposal". For a man and woman unrelated by blood or marriage to travel together was peculiar, but not unheard of; an alternate invention could have explained us.

I waited in the parlor for LaBoeuf to return. Mrs. Abbot, in the meanwhile, brewed tea and acquaintanceship. I learned, as she poured our cups and arranged a plate of shortbread on the table, that the boardinghouse was the innovation of Mr. Abbot's granfather, and earlier in the century had saved his family from destitution. As an only son, Mr. Abbot inherited the home not long ago and was obligated to honor his legacy by continuing to accomodate boarders; but he did not wish to give up his career as the town's singular physician, leaving Mrs. Abbot as the proprietress.

She admitted with a winsome smile, as we sipped our tea, that even if she and her husband struck gold she would not relinquish the boardinghouse. Holding her tea-cup with both hands, she said, "It is refreshing to see new faces so often. Our guests are mostly travellers in and out of Grape Vine on their way to worthier places. It is strange to think these are people I would otherwise never had met, whose lives I would have otherwise never learned about." I hoped she did not intend to inquire about Mr. and Mrs. Best's nonexistent pasts.

Halfway through our tea the bell on the front door chimed and in the hall appeared LaBoeuf, looking winded. Mrs. Abbot and I both put down our tea and rose to greet him.

I said, "Mrs. Abbot, this is my husband, John Best—John, this Mrs. Abbot, the wife of our proprietor." Mrs. Abbot bowed her head and LaBoeuf said, "Good afternoon," before removing his hat; he attempted to appear calm but I could tell he was not. Our luck could not have been so bad as to have something go awry at the post-office. 

"Mrs. Abbot," said LaBoeuf as he took a step in the room, "might I have a word alone with my wife?"

"Of course," she replied, and left the room.

LaBoeuf checked that she did not remain nearby to eavesdrop and closed the sliding doors to the hall, then came right over to me and spoke in a low voice. "This town does not have a post office, if you can believe it. There is a wagon from a neighboring town which comes every other day to distribute and collect the mail, and that is it."

"That is far too long to wait!" I exclaimed. "There must be someone closer than Waco we can rally to our cause."

"Under normal circumstances I would recommend going to the local law enforcement, but that may fare as well for us as it did last time."

"Those women that freed us," said I. "If they are trailing Sullivan, they must be nearby."

LaBoeuf scowled. "I do not ally myself to criminals."

"Why are you so certain that they are criminals? Wearing trousers and shooting a gun does not constitute a criminal," said I. "Either way, we have Kinsey's repeating rifle. We cannot simply wait around for your Waco colleagues while Sullivan slips away."

He looked away and sighed through his nostrils.

"Mr. LaBoeuf, that is cowardly," said I.

He replied, "No, it is smart. We will fail in our present state. A risk or two I would take, but more than that turns the tide against us."

"The choice is between allowing three vicious men to flee or doing all we can to bring them to justice!"

"Yesterday evening, did you not say that you no longer care about Donohue or the rest of them? That you only want to go home to your mother?"

"I did not say it that way," I spat; I had said something to that effect, but in a separate mentality, when a gun was just held to the back of my head, before Mr. Kinsey revealed to us all he had. I continued, "There is no choice, Mr. LaBoeuf! We must go after them."

"There is," said he, and dismissively waved his hand. "I cannot squabble any longer. After a hot meal and a night in a proper bed you will see things as they are." He turned away.

I watched him trod out of the parlor, where he met Mrs. Abbot in the hall and spoke with her; then, glancing at me, he went upstairs. I took up the tea I had not finished before LaBoeuf's entrance. Upstairs was where I had considered stomping away to during our altercation, but I could hardly go there now, though I craved solitude to think over the options before us.

At my own request I attended Mrs. Abbot on a trip to the grocer. A maid who came in the morning and left in the afternoon was the only other caretaker of the boardinghouse, so Mrs. Abbot cooked the guests' meals as well as her own family's; she had two sons, both barely yet able to speak. So she moved without dalliance, which normally would suit my disposition, but not today when I hoped for this to be a pleasant escape from "my husband" after our altercation, to reflect upon both of our words.

She and I walked arm-in-arm in the slanted light of an early sunset, each carrying empty baskets for the groceries. Mrs. Abbot looked over her recipe, scrawled on a piece of card stock, to ascertain everything required. She was a pleasant walking partner, but I was distracted by ideas of Donohue's death and how to bring it about. When I thought slowly and rationally, I had to concede that LaBoeuf was right; we were outnumbered. Even Sheriff Randolph and Pitt Sullivan's injuries, if what Kinsey told us held true, made little difference. Yet, such disadvantages did not warrant inaction.

Mrs. Abbot and I separated; she to the butcher and I to the grocer with her little card stock. My single task was to hand the paper to the store clerk and wait as he collected the ingredients. It pained me to go about doing mundane things while Donohue was just outside town, plotting his next move to broaden the distance between himself and the law. Every minute spent lingering in Grape Vine would have been better spent gaining on him; instead we were supplying him ample opportunity to flee.

On our walk back to the boardinghouse, our baskets now heavy with what would soon be dinner and my head stirring plots and strategies to close in on Donohue and his cohorts, my companion was more talkative than earlier. She asked, "Mrs. Best, how long have you been married?"

I answered, after a thought, "Only a week."

Mrs. Abbot laughed, and said, "Oh, pardon me. I was hoping you may have been a wife longer than I have, or at least longer than a week."

"Why is that?" I asked.

Her smile faded; but her eyes retained a thoughtful glow. "I suppose I have no right to ask advice from a practical stranger, but I hoped to confide in another married woman about—well, every other married woman in this town is well over sixty. Younger couples are wise enough to find livelier country."

"What sort of advice do you need?" I asked; forgetful that, in truth, I knew even less of marriage than Mrs. Abbot perceived.

"Oh, nevermind about it," she said, patting my hand; the bright smile returned to her face.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Best were not the sole patrons of the boardinghouse that evening. Another young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hill, were staying in Grape Vine on their way to a cattle ranch outside San Antonio—and an additional guest, a passer-by named Mr. Murphy, despite his rough character, was the merriest and most cordial of all the company. I spent the while until dinner reading in a little library at the back of the house, in a taffeta evening-gown of Mrs. Abbot's, supplied to me after my blue travelling dress was put in with the laundry. I saw LaBoeuf but once before we gathered in the dining room, when he entered the library and had a short look around, then returned to the hall.

The dinner-bell rang shortly after Mr. Abbot arrived home. The lives of Mr. and Mrs. Best were of continual fascination to our dinner party; their curiosity drove them to ask many questions which could have been easily answered, had the lives involved not been entirely fictitious. The bulk of the curiosity came from Mrs. Abbot, and some innocuous commentary from Mr. Murphy and the Hills. Mr. Abbot, a pale figure in spectacles, was chiefly silent, eating calmly and deliberately, with no reaction at all to the discussion around him.

Throughout the meal I awaited an opportunity to broach an idea which had brewed in my mind upon our arrival in Grape Vine, and which I had thereafter improved on; and finally, in the library just before dinner, rehearsed into adequacy.

"Mrs. Abbot," said I, struggling to balance spontaneity with the recited lines in my head, "before Mr. Best and I commenced our journey, my mother mentioned a family she once knew on a farm outside Grape Vine, and she requested I call on them if we stopped in this area. The name was—oh, MacDonald, I believe, or something similar."

LaBoeuf looked up from his plate and caught my eye with a curious glare; I had not discussed with him prior my idea of gathering further information from our hosts. Mrs. Abbot finished the bite in her mouth as she thought, then proclaimed, "I do not know any MacDonalds. There are the McGees, though they have always lived here in town. Do you know which direction the farm lies?"

"Southeast, I believe."

"If I am not mistaken, I believe your mother said true south, dear," replied LaBoeuf, inflecting  _ mother _ and  _ dear _ , so as to assert his discontent.

"There is the MacDyer farm, down the Dallas Road," said Mr. Abbot before lifting his tea to his mouth. This was the first time throughout dinner that he spoke. "But the last of them left years ago and sold the farm to the bank. Nobody has lived out there in twenty years."

His head yet inclined toward his plate, only his eyes rose to observe me; I sensed he could see beyond my flesh, to the truths I was concealing. I returned my attention to Mrs. Abbot's softer gaze.

"Oh, that is too bad," said I. "My mother was looking forward to hearing of her friends. I shall hate to write only to tell her I have no news of them."

Our conversation moved on to other innocuous subjects, but throughout the rest of the meal LaBoeuf's eye remained steadily watching me, knowing what I was up to and awaiting further mischief.

As our party withdrew to the front parlor, LaBoeuf kept behind, and caught my arm as I attempted to join them. "You may signal me with words, Mr. LaBoeuf," I spat as I yanked myself free of him. "It is not necessary to assault me whenever you wish to parley."

"I trust you are not devising to visit that farmhouse alone," said he, in a whisper, though the murmurings from the hall indicated the rest of our party paid us no mind. I gave him no reply—his observations had answered himself.

"Fine then," he spouted, "go there and be killed. You will have no one to blame but yourself and your own high-handedness. All I ask is that you quit making us conspicuous in this house."

"I came nowhere close to revealing my true meaning."

"Perhaps not deliberately; but you are an inept liar—'I shall hate to write to Mother…'—as if you were reading from a playbook."

"Is being an unpracticed liar something to be ashamed of? I have brought no serious doubt upon us. That is all that matters." With that I hoisted the long skirt of my evening gown and moved on to the parlor.

More intolerability followed; I had anticipated a quiet closure to the evening, until Mrs. Hill demanded Mr. Murphy bring out his violin for a dance, as had apparently been done the night before. Spreading apart the furniture made room enough in the parlor for three couples; Mr. Murphy rosined his bow and the dance commenced.

Mrs. Abbot partnered with her husband, who seemed altogether less thrilled by the trot than she, as did Mrs. Hill; I remained in my chair at the fireside, hands calmly folded in my lap of brown taffeta, not so much as glancing at LaBoeuf. Circumstance was once again everything; perhaps any other evening I would have delighted to dance with him, or even one of the other men, but that night I could not stand to even look on the dancers.

A second song was played, equally jolly to the first, and though Mr. and Mrs. Hill were ready again for the exercise, Mr. Abbot bowed abruptly to his wife and sat down. This slight did not surprise me; Mr. Abbot appeared all evening to be in dispirits, as I suspected he was most of the rest of the time. His wife remained standing, mortified by her husband's detachment, witnessed by all of the room.

I did not study LaBoeuf before he stood and extended his hand to Mrs. Abbot, but I suspected he observed the same actions the rest of us had, and rose simply to quell her embarrassment.

LaBoeuf was not an excellent dancer (none of them were aside from Mrs. Hill) but he managed well, and moved jauntily about.

The sight of them inspired no jealousy in me, the likes of which may have otherwise disturbed me; my mind was on other men, visions of Donohue and his cohorts laughing and sipping coffee by the fireplace of a cozy farmhouse and perhaps having some music of their own, as Sullivan's wounds healed steadily. I lifted my eyes to observe the two couples twirling before me. The men's boots stomped the floor, the ladies' skirts glided and bounced to reveal their slippers doing the same; beyond them Mr. Murphy dipped and struck his bow expertly; Mr. Abbot sat on the sofa reading a newspaper, as if the commotion was no bother at all.

Finally I stood and quit the parlor. I could not sit there one minute longer participating in this meaningless revelry, pretending to be Cordelia Best, while there was work to be done. Not knowing exactly where I meant to proceed to, I paused in the hall, before impulsively deciding to retrieve our saddlebags and continue to the livery.

Our room was dim with eveningtide but I did not bother lighting a candle before grabbing the bags from the closet and draping them over my shoulder. The Winchester rifle rested upright against the wall and I took that as well. When I moved to leave, a silhouette appeared in the doorway, blacking out the light from the hall. I tucked the rifle behind my back.

"You cannot mean to face them alone," said LaBoeuf.

"Perhaps I will fail—it may even be inevitable—but at least I will have tried."

"You will have tried in vain."

"We could go tonight and surprise them while they sleep," said I.

LaBoeuf glanced down at my good arm, tucked behind my back, and knowing instantly what it must have been hiding, he put out his hand. "Give me that."

"Only if you agree to come with me to the farmhouse—tonight." 

He grabbed my arm and tried to pry the gun from me; when I resisted, he released me and muttered, "We do not know the terrain. We scarcely know our adversaries. And now you wish to go there without the advantage of daylight?" 

Murmurs drifted up the stair, and the steps creaked as someone ascended. 

I said lowly and quickly, "The night will  _ be _ our advantage if they do not know we are coming. I say the advantages far outweigh any risk. It is worth leaving at once." The unforeseen person gained on the stair. "Mr. LaBoeuf, please, we cannot lose track—"

"Fine! All right, hush now—" He took the rifle from my hand and placed it against the wall just inside the room, where it would remain unseen by whoever came to join us. He looked nervously behind him at the stairs, where Mrs. Abbot rose to the top step and smiled affectionately. 

"Are you well, Mrs. Best?" she asked. "You left the parlor quite suddenly." 

I smiled. "Oh—yes, I apologize. I had a little queasiness. Mr. Best and I will rejoin you in a moment." 

She nodded incredulously and descended; the violin soon floated up from the parlor. 

"We will go tonight then?" I whispered to LaBoeuf. "We have faced poorer odds before."

"Fine," said he, with unveiled frustration. "I see that you will not be dissuaded from it, even with my refusal."

After returning the rifle to its hiding spot in the closet, LaBoeuf and I returned downstairs to the parlor; though Mr. Murphy continued on his violin the dancing had ceased, and LaBoeuf and I were invited to join the Hills and Mrs. Abbot in a game of bridge. I found myself more agitated than before; now that our plan was set in motion, I was plagued both by fresh anxiety and uncertainty.

I formulated a strategy with the worst conditions in mind—I pictured the MacDyver residence as the house I had stolen Ichabod's saddle from, a squarish two-story farmhouse with one or two out-buildings, and sat up-hill from the road. Donohue and the rest of the men likely considered themselves safe, but perhaps placed a look-out on the grounds; I considered each possibility, chiefly as a means of distracting myself from worry, knowing that each conceivable step of the plan might change depending on the actual environment. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hill retired first, then Mr. Murphy, and though I did not wish to stay up conversing with Mrs. Abbot I did so anyway—as I wished to be the last of us awake—and we began a new card-game. LaBoeuf, I think, sensed my intentions and gave me a look before he too said good-night, leaving Mrs. Abbot and I alone in the parlor; and it was not long before she yawned and rose from her seat.

I assured her I was fine reading alone as long as I was left a candle, and would show myself to bed in an hour or so. She went upstairs; I heard the sound of a door close; and when the house was still, I put away my book and stepped tentatively into the hall. Mrs. Abbot had made her rounds and extinguished all the oil-lamps before going upstairs and besides that which my candle illuminated, all was dark. 

I crept into the house as delicately as Mrs. Abbot's stiff evening-gown would allow, down the length of the hall and into the kitchen; a large sack of clothing sat in the corner of the room, whose smell determined it unlaundered; there I found my blue travelling dress. 

I changed right there in the kitchen, limbs moving rapidly and eyes constant on the door, thinking how I might explain myself if someone were to come downstairs for a glass of water or the like. The dress was not any cleaner than it was that morning, and in fact gave off a damp odor that hadn't been there before. I hung the taffeta gown on a hook by the door and went upstairs.

The upper hallway was quiet and the door-frames all dark, yet the fear of discovery tickled my palms as I walked to our room; if my footsteps alone stirred no one, LaBoeuf and I and our luggage were sure to do so, sleeping or otherwise. However, as I entered the room I discovered that made no difference to our plans. The flickering candle I carried half-illuminated the sleeping figure of LaBoeuf, reclined in an easy chair opposite the bed, sleeves unbuttoned and arms crossed over his stomach.

Despite my impatience to gain on Donohue, I considered the better interest of our mission to let LaBoeuf rest; and the delay would reduce the likelihood of discovery by our fellow boarders. I myself was tired, but my mind danced here and there too eagerly to rest. I went about the room in search of a diversion until then; in the nightstand I found a Bible and nothing else. I lit and new candle and made use of it, opening the pages to Luke and beginning where my eyes landed. I hoped to find the verse inspirational or significant; it was neither.

In studying LaBoeuf's form I found greater entertainment and relevance. I wondered if he did not have the passion for his work he once did—how willing he was to give up the chase and lie in wait for his colleagues to supplement his failings. This cowardice was not the LaBoeuf I knew. If the bounty on Cobb was not motivation enough, the prize of all three criminals ought to have inspired him to venture against the odds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any editing mistakes; I haven't looked over this chapter very closely and it's been sitting around on my desktop for so long that I thought I might as well post it as is.
> 
> I am going through a number of personal difficulties recently that are eating up all of my writing time and motivation (including but not limited to spending a lot of money on a Florida vacation, then barely escaping Hurricane Irma, whoopee) so I'm not sure when the next update will be, but one way or another I am going to finish this fic! So help me God!


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